


Right There Next To You

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All the show's warnings apply, Bipolar Disorder, Canon divergence during season 9, Coping with depression/mania, Drug Addiction, Homophobic Language, I didn't start it, I'm just filling it in, Language, Learning to deal with anger, M/M, MMA Mickey, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Suicide, Mexico without prison endgame, Nurse Ian Gallagher, Our opinions may differ, Prison is not disneyland, Putting some work into a real relationship, Sex, Some canon fill-ins, Terry gets an ass beating by Mickey, Violence, You are both broken and I will fix you damn it or support each other enough to fix yourselves, it's Gallavich so enter at your own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-10-19 16:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 123,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Fuck prison as endgame.  Ian goes to Mexico.----And fuck Carl for asking, ‘do you love Mickey?’. And fuck Mickey for already knowing the answer to that even though all Ian said back was, ‘I like how he smells’. And fuck Ian for not just saying, ‘yes’. Would it have been so fucking hard to admit that then? Would it have been so fucking hard for either of them to ever say those three fucking words at a time when they weren’t tearing each other’s hearts out of their chests?





	1. Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's decision time.

Running

 

“I had a dream last night. I was running. Running down a trail in a forrest. The trees were bare. Empty naked branches scraping the cold grey January sky. Tearing through the clouds, like open gouges from a cat scratch. I was running. I could hear my breath in my ears. And the snow crunching beneath my feet. There was a crow. But otherwise I was alone. A black crow perched in the middle of the path. He was silent. Just watching me. But he had blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. And it should have been creepy. But it wasn’t. It was,” I take a deep breath of the late summer air, “it was comforting. To see those blue eyes again. After so long,” my voice trails off, no I won’t go there, “I was running. Towards the crow. And suddenly it disappeared. And I was alone. Suddenly so aware of how alone I was in the frozen wood. I looked up and saw the trees ripping the clouds apart, sun was shining through. So brilliant and bright. Burning my eyes when I looked back down at the snow. Like a trillion diamonds strewn across the forest floor. Catching the sun’s rays, dancing and sparkling. Throwing it back in my face harshly. I could barely see it was so bright. But I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch the sun’s rays. The ones that were splashing across the ground at my feet. But every time I reached for them they went dark. They disappeared. Leaving me cold. Alone. I just kept running. The wind was starting to sting on my bare skin. A cold winter wind rising up from all around me. I was so cold. I could see my breath and I could feel the wind burning into me like needles on my skin. The sun was horribly bright but I just wanted to touch it. I just kept reaching out. And when I finally fell on my bare knees in the snow, I touched it. My hand. It was in the ray of sunshine. And it felt so blissfully warm. But then it started burning. I sat there with my hand in the sun, and I watched it burn. I watched it turn red. And blister. I started to scream. But no sound would come out. Nothing would come out.”  
The silence would be defeating if not for the sound of our feet on the pavement. The sound of our breaths in the warm air, leaving our mouths in rhythmic huffs.

I start to wonder if he’s heard me. If he’s heard anything I’ve just said. I start to wonder if I’ve even said it. When finally his head turns towards me. Confusion in his eyes, but that serial killer smile he’s worn since he was a baby starts to rise. I know he wants to tell me to take my fucking meds. That I sound like a fucking weirdo. Instead he shrugs, “if you eat before bed you’re more likely to have weird dreams.”

And in Carl’s world it is that simple. 

I am a bare man running through a naked forrest covered in snow while I burn to death. And to Carl, that’s just a midnight snack.  
I laugh. I don’t know what else to do, “you’re probably right,” because Carl is the only one I can still talk to without being Monica. Carl is the only one who looks at me like I’m still Ian. And the only time I still find Ian is when we’re out for our morning jogs. I can be mostly alone in my head beside my brother who won’t verbally accuse me of being a delusional head case. 

I blink. I close my eyes, it’s no longer than a blink. I blink. But when I open my eyes I’m standing on the porch. 

I’m fifteen and I’m knocking. And my heart is in my throat. And I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe until his face appears. He pulls the door open, giving me an annoyed look. ‘It’s not a good time’. But ‘I didn’t know where else to go’. And it’s true. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t. But I didn’t know how to tell him, it wasn’t where, it wasn’t a place. It was never a destination. It was him. It was his face, it was the softening in his eyes. It was the feel of his eye contact. It was him. He was all I needed. And I didn’t know, I didn’t know at the time that it wasn’t just the warmth of his body around me and against me, it wasn’t the feel of his fingers when I wrapped mine around them and he let me. It was him. It was all of him. But I was fifteen. And I didn’t know where else to go.

I take a deep breath and watch as my hand rises to the brown wooden door. I hear it in my ears as I knock. But I don’t feel it against my knuckles. I see it as it opens. And I see it, what was I expecting? Was I truly expecting those blue eyes? Was I truly hoping that he was here, that he was still here? 

“Mickey’s in Mexico.”

“I’m not here to see Mickey,” but if I’m not here to see Mickey, then what the hell am I here for? Am I here to see this man? Really? Am I? What could I possibly have to say to this piece of shit? What could I possibly learn from this piece of shit that I couldn’t learn from anyone else in this neighborhood? Did I think he had the secrets to where Mickey is, did I think I could come here and just ask him where his fugitive son is? Did I think he knew? Like he talked to Mickey every Sunday night to check in on him?

And suddenly my stomach feels raw. The acid is sloshing around, forcing it’s way up my throat. I swallow. I swallow and force it down as he’s insulting me and trying to shut the door in my face. I swallow and force it down as he accuses me of trying to faggify people. I’d explain. I’d try to explain but then I hear him again. ‘You’re going to fuck the faggot out of this one’, and I stifle a gag, “how much time did you do in the pen?”

Really? You know no one else who’s been behind bars? Really? You know no one else you could ask these questions?

“Mouth and ass rapings, which you’d probably enjoy…”

‘You’re going to fuck the faggot out of this one’. 

“I did the raping. Milkoviches don’t bottom.”

‘Fuck the faggot out of this one’. 

I say something. I hear my voice, but I don’t know what I said. Choking down the rising vomit. Stifling the rising memories. The sound of his fists, the sound of his shouts, the sound of his pistol connecting with Mickey’s face. Mickey’s face. Mickey’s beautiful face as he sat beat and hurting on that couch. Mickey’s face as he stared at me while the Russian rode him. While she fucked the faggot out of him. While he bled and died in front of me. And all I could do was sit there with my knuckles against my lips and stare, and I couldn’t even hide the pity on my face. And he must have felt so…

“Okay, rapings, food, guards, I can handle that shit…”

“Anyone can handle that shit…”

Raping. Raping. Raping. It starts repeating. In my mind like a movie reel. Flashing like a movie reel. His face. HIs face. HIs beautiful face as he watched me. As he watched me watching him. Watching him being raped. Watching him being raped. Watching him being raped. 

‘Anyone can handle that shit’. Anyone. Anyone who’s never been through it. Anyone who’s never experienced it. Anyone who’s never been there. Anyone who’s never had that piece of them taken away, destroyed, broken and bleeding. Taken away. As I watched it happen in front of my very face. And I didn’t understand. I never understood.

“If I was you, I’d pack my shit and run.”

The door slams. I watch it slam. I stand here. I stand here and swallow the rising acid. How many times have I stood on this porch? Sharing a smoke with Mandy? Sharing a smoke with Mickey? How many times have I just pulled that front door open and gone in? How many times did I pull that door open to the life I wished for with the man I loved? And how many times was I too blind to see it? How many times did I run away from it?

“What did I do?” I hear myself whisper. I feel my body moving. Step by step. Down the stairs of the porch, “what did I do?”  
I stop moving under the L tracks. I lean my head back. I close my eyes. And I see him. I see him so clearly. He is the blue-eyed crow in my dreams. He is the one and only thing that will stay beside me in the darkness. ‘I can take care of him. Let me take care of him’. The pleading in his voice. Who was he talking to? Who was he talking to as I lay still and pained in his bed? Who was he pleading with? So desperate to keep me. 

I close my eyes. It was just a blink. It was no longer than a blink. When they open I’m lying in bed. In my bed. In my home. In my home with my family under the roof. This family that may as well be strangers to me. We’ve grown so far apart since Monica died. When is the last time I’ve spoken to Fiona? About anything real? None of this childish bullshit with the building, and the overly dramatic feud that I was too immature to put an end to even when she was willing. When is the last time I shared a beer with Lip? And we joked and talked like we used to? Debbie? Fuck, I’ve barely spoken to Debbie in ages. Liam? We pass each other in the hall, no differently than acquaintances on the street. 

‘What am I leaving behind? My family? You had my back more than they ever did’. But wasn’t I just standing on the porch in front of your monster, wasn’t I just standing there? And what did I say? What did I say about you? Did I make a joke? Did I really make a joke about you to your despicable and wretched father who did no more for you than break your back and smash your face into the dirt? Did I make a fucking joke? About you? About the only man I’ve ever loved. The only man who has ever loved me. The only person who still saw me. You saw me. You saw me through the disease. You kept me inside my own skin when I was trying so desperately to rip it off and throw myself into the fire. You, the one who lay down behind me when I was too broken to move, you, who never touched me because you knew it physically hurt, but you lay so close I could feel your body heat. I could hear you whisper so quietly, ‘I love you’. It was so quiet. So quiet but it was the only thing that kept me hanging on when everything else had fallen away. You were the hand in the darkness that just kept reaching out and taking hold of mine before I could suffocate.

My eyes close. It’s just a blink. It’s just long enough to be a blink. But in the darkness of my lids it starts rising. It all starts rising. All the images of what I’ve done to my life since leaving him at the border. Leaving him to cross into an unknown and uneasy world alone. Alone. Why? Because I was fucking terrified of being away from home. Away from my job, and my siblings, and my boyfriend. And the life that I was forcing myself to believe was happy. It was happy because it was stable. It was stable because it was boring and it was boring because none of it meant a fucking thing to me. Because the only thing, the only thing that could make me feel like I wanted to live and I wanted to enjoy living, the only thing was him. But fuck, going into the unknown with nothing but his hand in mine, with nothing but a few thousand dollars and a shitty fake ID. Fuck, I couldn’t just walk into that. I couldn’t just walk away from my stability because I loved him. Because I loved him. I loved him.

I love him. It may be the one and only thing I’ve told myself in the last few months that wasn’t a lie. 

In the darkness of my eyelids I see it. Every single face at the shelter becomes Mickey. And every single face at the shelter becomes Mandy. Every single one of those kids that I wanted to help, I wanted to help, I truly wanted to help; they become the two people on this Earth that I never could truly help. Two people on this Earth that I probably hurt more than anything. And what about that little blonde boy? That sweet, innocent little blonde boy with Mickey’s eyes? What about him? I could have killed him. I could have killed him on that road trip. 

My eyes are closed. They’ve been closed for far too long. And this time when they open, it all becomes so fucking clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene between Ian and Terry annoyed me on so many levels. I won't go into it, it's kind of clear what parts of it bothered me in the writing. 
> 
> This is probably the only chapter I'll do in first person - I find it very hard to do first person on someone else's creation. But for some reason it felt more fitting in an attempt to figure out where Ian is.
> 
> So if I continue with this, and you end up reading it, you will see the OC's from Tell Me About Mexico. This is not a rewrite of that, I am pleased with that fic. This is a chance to retell the endgame, and explore a different relationship between Mickey and Lou since the endgame wouldn't involve rolling on a cartel. I think it'd still be fun to fill in Mickey's time alone in Mexico with something similar to Tell Me About Mexico, but then of course if Ian finds him...
> 
> I know the ship has sailed - right off into Beckman Correctional where you can't convince me they'll have a happy ending, and I can't convince me they'll have a happy ending, so this is my exploration into an alternate route for their romance. 
> 
> I don't have a plan for this, I'm not even sure I have a pl, but I wanted to throw this out there and see if there were any takers - aside from those that wanted this after Meanest Hunk Of Woman (thanks!).


	2. The Border

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey crossing the border
> 
> If you read Tell Me About Mexico you can skip this. The first few months of Mickey's time in Mexico will basically be copy/paste jobs with small tweaks. But I couldn't think of a more fitting first meeting for these two though their relationship will be different this time around.

The Border

 

One quick glance back in the rearview. One. That’s all. All he will afford himself. Then he will never think of him again. Never.

Sweaty hands on the wheel. Watching the expression of awe, relief, tears swelling in those hypnotic eyes as he inches the green car further past the border crossing. Knowing this is it. This is the end. It’s not us, not the ending he wanted. But the end nonetheless. One he’ll have to fulfill. For himself now. Maybe the only person he could ever truly count on in the end. 

He drives for an hour before the adrenaline catches up in the form of nausea. Pulling off the road into the dirt of the never-ending desert. Flinging the door open just in time to heave onto the hot ground. Tears and snot smearing across his face when he swipes the back of his hand across it. 

Deep breath, make a plan. Legit ID would be step one, preferably one with a dude’s picture on it. Clothes. Fuck. Get out of this awful dress would be step one. Yanking at the wig he’d all but forgotten about. Tossing it to the dirt. Not bothering to take in his surroundings before undressing. Down to bare skin. Everything in a pile. Flames, last image he left Ian with burning in the desert at his feet. Good, leave him with the image of a fucking dress. A fucking dress. And heals. Fucking heals. Women are nuts. Wear that shit. 

Shaking his head to himself as he lights a cigarette. Remembering only when he leans back against the closed car door that he’s stark naked. Should have left that ginger fuckhead with this image, laughing to himself, eyes pressing closed tight. Hand rising unconsciously to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Chastising himself for thinking again about his firecrotch. 

“Done,” he says aloud to the open air around him, “I’m fucking done.” 

Startled when a crusty old voice responds, “bueno.”

Too shocked to do anything including cover his junk, jaw dropping to look at the old woman approaching him on foot. She’s wrinkled like tissue paper torn haphazardly off a Christmas gift. Or how Mickey supposed it would be ripped off a Christmas gift. He’d never actually witnessed the act. Briefly jarring himself when the image of a little boy with his eyes sitting under a tree lit with red lights, branches heavy with silver ornaments, passes his vision. Kid’ll be fine, reminding himself, better off without him. 

Fuck, running his hand down over his face and laughing with himself as the old woman eyes his body. 

Unashamed. The both of them. 

“Buen material genetico.”

“No idea the fuck you just said,” shrugging, taking a long pull on the cigarette between his lips. Sure he learned a few lines from Damon, but none of those seem particularly right for this kind of situation. Maybe leaving him in that parking lot was a bad idea.  
A snicker from behind him cuts into this head. Too wound up in his own fucked up self pity to be aware of his surroundings. Dumbass, fucked yourself over already.

“She thinks you’ll pass the test,” clear, steady female voice behind him, off to his right, footsteps growing nearer through the gravel and sand. Head turning in slow motion, barrel of a shotgun the only thing he can see.

Hands up at his sides immediately, keeping the cigarette clenched firmly between his lips. Two choices here. Stand and play this out. Or run. 

Who am I fucking kidding, “I’m not much of a runner,” admitting to the shotgun aimed at his temple.

“Good, saves me a bullet.”

Feeling suddenly as naked as he actually is, and feeling also the heat of her eyes scanning his body, her muttered echo to the old woman as she scans him up and down, and back down, “buen material genetico,” an air of cocky superiority in her voice. 

His eyes have yet to travel beyond the barrel of the gun. Not certain he wants to. 

“Face me, keep your hands up.”

Deep breath, doing as he’s told. Daring to scan his line of sight beyond the rifle. She’s tall, skin kissed bronze with the desert sun at her back. Baseball cap and aviators shielding her face. He notes the hair buzzed close to her scalp, wondering oddly enough, if it’s all buzzed off. She’s clearly American. 

“I lower this gun, you gonna run?”

“Got a million things to run from already, don’t feel like adding you to the list.”

“Good answer,” a smirk spreading across her lips as the rifle is lowered to her side, “those your clothes?” tilting her head towards the pile of charred cotton, poly, and spandex.

A shrug of his broad muscular shoulders is the only response he knows himself to be capable of at this moment. 

“Wallet. Hand it over.”

Keeping his hand palm out toward the armed woman before ducking into the open window of the driver’s side door, reaching to the dash, fingers meeting the envelope. Internally cursing himself out for not noticing Ian had left his life savings in the car. Cursing himself out again when he wishes he had just left his damn lanky ass in the car instead. Sliding over the envelope, hoping the broad won’t notice it, grabbing the mostly empty wallet. Tossing it to her. 

She laughs immediately at the image of the fake ID, “Michelle, huh? Nice pic. Whatcha running from? Law? Crazy ex-wife you owe child support to? Gang life? Military?”

No response. Biting back a ‘fuck you’. Not going to learn this life the hard way. He’ll bite his own tongue bloody before he’ll let his natural hotheadedness ruin this chance for freedom. 

“All of the above,” mumbling to herself as she pulls a small handful of bills out of the fold, quickly thumbing through with a shrug before replacing them. Folding the trifold, extending it towards him momentarily before changing her mind and taking it back. A quick open, the item he was hoping she’d not notice. The photo. The photo he was trying to gain the strength to throw on the fire, “boyfriend?”

Unsure of the exact moment he became secure with his sexuality, “yeah,” quickly clarifying to himself, “ex. Ex- boyfriend.”

“Ginger, huh?” her accent isn’t entirely unlike his own. Maybe further north. Muted by a few years of living here he supposed. Smugness creeping into her smile, “I’d be running from that too,” tossing the wallet his way but not the picture just yet. 

“What the fuck you want with me?” temper starting to broil, eyebrows creeping further towards his hairline. Clearly she doesn’t want his money. Or the car, “the fuck does buen genetico material mean?”

Smirk, looking over her shoulder quickly at the old woman. Dropping the aviators to the tip of her nose. Her gaze lingering on his chest for a moment before rising. When her eyes make contact with his, just briefly he sees a moon and million stars. A galaxy passing his realm of things he thought possible and impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite have a full plan for this, maybe a pla, but I've got a few chapters worked through so I figured I'd start posting. Thanks for reading!


	3. A Railroad Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's thoughts on the first trip to the border, and a stop on his second trip.

A Railroad Bridge

 

He couldn’t sleep that night. Even once Mickey was sleeping quietly next to him in the open air of the cooling night. He kept his eyes open, watching the stars, tracing patterns from twinkle to twinkle. Counting in his head all the things he had. All the solid, stable things he had back in Chicago. A job he loved. Family. A steady boyfriend he loved. 

If you love Trevor, then why was it so easy, then why did it only take a single look, to get you to pack up a bag and get in that Jeep? 

He tells himself he loves Trevor. He loves what they have. But what do they have? Really? A strange misunderstanding of each other’s true identities and a sex life with zero chemistry. Fuck, he loves him. That’s all that matters.

He rolls to his shoulder, eyes scanning the sleeping form beside him. Even in sleep he’s ready to pounce. Always ready for an incoming attack. Fists clenched, eyes moving beneath his closed lids.

They had sex. They’ve been doing not much more than having sex this entire time. The same incredible, passion and lust driven sex they’ve always had. The soul searing sex that Ian has never felt with anyone else. Every chance they get. 

They had sex, but it was weird, wasn’t it? It was different. There was something building between them. Something that had never existed before. Some kind of distance and Ian ignored it, he pretended it wasn’t there. Was he pulling away? Was he already pulling away? Was his internal debate making its way to Mickey’s ears?

‘I miss you’, he said it into his phone the other morning. He said it to Trevor’s voicemail. And he meant it. But did he really mean it? Or did he only say it because he was looking at Mickey? He was looking at Mickey sleeping soundly, he was looking at a man that had gone through so much with him. And for him. And as he scanned him over that morning in the van, his heart leapt into his throat, his stomach was invaded with butterflies and he muttered, “I miss you,” as his eyes lingered on Mickey. It was Mickey. It was always Mickey. It would always be Mickey. 

But Mexico? Fuck. Mexico with a fugitive. Running and hiding. Hadn’t they done enough running and hiding? Was that what Ian truly wanted? A lifetime spent living on a ledge. All it would take was a light breeze to push him off, just a light breeze and he’d be free falling into the abyss. Could his meds remain balanced under that kind of pressure? Could that kind of stress send him hurdling into paranoia and psychosis? Yes. Easily. And what would happen then? To him. But most of all to Mickey. What would happen to Mickey if he was lost in Mexico, desperate to keep Ian from running away with his head full of fire and his fists full of gasoline? 

He slides an arm under Mickey’s head, the other over his chest. Leaning into him gently. Hoping he won’t wake him, but he does. He hears it in the change of breathing pattern. That startled catch in his throat. That moment where his sleeping mind is frantically searching for wake, searching for the identity of the human touch. Searching for what human, searching for what place, what motive behind it.

“Just me,” he whispers against the back of his head as he feels the body in his arms stiffening, defenses rising, “go back to sleep.”

But he doesn’t. Neither does Ian. They lie there awake. And silent. Not saying any of the words they should both just say. But they’ve always been so bad at communicating. Why would that change now? 

As he inhales the scent of this man, so many images, so many conversations, so many things he did wrong. So many things he said but didn’t mean. About him. About this man in his arms. And why? ‘Yeah Mick, I’ll wait’. 

Fuck, his breath hitches. Burying his face in Mickey’s neck to stifle the sound. He won’t do this. This isn’t about the past. This is about the future. This is about tomorrow. Crossing that border. Starting a new life. A new life with all their old failings. Chasing after them like a shadow. They’ll never stop chasing. 

And Ian is tired of running.

He doesn’t have to run. This isn’t his to run from.

Silence. Beyond the sound of the river under the railroad bridge. The night sounds around them. Ian has never done this. Slept out in nature. Nothing more than the ROTC training, but that was nothing like this. The night air cool on his face. Bringing a clarity with it that he’s never felt before. 

He doesn’t have to run. This was Mickey’s choice. It was his choice to break out of prison. It was his choice to run. It was not Ian’s choice. Ian chose stability. He chose to take his meds, to start a career, to settle down with a stable man. He chose stability. He breathes the scent of Mickey, knowing this is not stable. Nothing about it.

Mickey doesn’t speak. His breathing is changing, shifting to something Ian can’t understand. Breathing deeply through his nose. Holding it. He can feel his chest rise against his arms. He can feel his ribs expand against his own. He holds it. And he gathers it inside of him, inside of his fortress of scars, fear, pain, and determination. Inside of him. A place that Ian will never understand. 

He exhales slowly. And his hand slides down Ian’s arm. Gentle, his rough calloused fingers like sandpaper on Ian’s sensitive inner arm. Covering the surface of his palm, slipping between his. And squeezing. Reassuring. Unspoken words, ‘I’ve got us. But only if you want it.’ 

————

‘Did you ever think back in the day…’

Ian smiles, chasing the butterflies in his stomach back down as far as he can. Lying back on a blanket in the cooling night. Watching the stars twinkling above him, watching the eery glow the moon is casting on the railroad bridge.

‘Us, the beach…’

He doesn’t have a plan. He never did. He couldn’t risk doing any research on his phone before leaving. So all he has a few hundred dollars, a fake ID he got before he left Chicago, and a paper map. And a feeling, a feeling he hasn’t felt in so fucking long he forgot it existed. Hope. Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was absolutely never convinced on any level that Ian loved Trevor, but I also don't want to take that completely out of his decision to go back to Chicago, I think the show was trying to convince us that it was a big part of it. The only reasons I thought held any weight on his decision to go back were his family and his stability. At that time the family was still a family and he seemed like he was on his meds and getting his life together career-wise. And of course if he couldn't stay stable in Mexico it would have probably hurt Mickey much worse than leaving him at the border, which I think was something Mickey also understood.


	4. 3 Blackbelts And DNA On Her Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one and the next one are from Tell Me About Mexico with a few tweaks. It'll change course after that. 
> 
> Mickey's first few weeks in Mexico.

3 Blackbelts and DNA on Her Boots

 

She’s scrubbing something off the toe of her boot. Sitting on her cot, the short jean shorts that’s he’s become certain are the only jeans she owns. Fraying at her ass, so short on the right thigh they may as well be underwear. More fabric on the left leg but still threadbare. Worn whitened strands of material being peeled off hastily every morning when she steps into them.

Towel drying his hair, taking the seat on his own cot across the floor from her, “whatcha scrubbing on?”

“DNA,” with a shrug.

“DNA,” half laugh, he’s certain no matter how much scrubbing she does, the DNA from however many years she’s been wearing those beat-up combat boots will never come off. Any given moment there’s blood, bones, and hair somewhere in the treads or on the toe. She’s certainly not one to wear boots as a fashion statement. Boots serve a purpose, Mickey was never one to understand them as an accessory either. Damn hipsters. 

“How much you know about me pretty boy?” half mumbled, aimed more towards the boots than the man across from her.

“What do ya mean?”

“How much of my shit you snoop through?”

Scoffing at the accusation. Two weeks here, not sure what they’re doing, not sure what his purpose here serves. But it’s shelter and food. 

Hand slipping into her pocket, producing a knife. Flipping it open to set it menacingly on her thigh, “spill it.”

“Fine,” hands rising at his sides though she’s not even watching him, “I didn’t find your dildo collection if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Dildos,” snorting toward the boot she’s inspecting, “with all the rotating and vibrating, three heads and suction cups. Stay away from the prostitutes ‘round town. ‘Less you want your dick to rot off. Rocky’ll take you to med soon. Real thorough exam have you crying for a prison cavity search in no time. Gotta pass inspection first. Then we’ll start you on the mats.”

Eyebrows rising with each statement, too much to process, too many follow-up questions to voice and she’s still waiting for an answer but…

“So, how far you get into my shit?” her eyes rise now to meet his and he can’t help but be completely honest.

“Just your certificates over there,” tilting his head towards the drawer at the foot of her cot, “two blackbelts, huh?”

“Three actually. You’re a shitty snoop.”

“You ain’t got much shit.”

Shrug, “materials can be replaced. Friends can be replaced. Only thing that can’t is life.”

“Then why the certificates?”

Stillness and silence as she studies his eyes, scanning his face. Expressionless and calm. The first move is to set the boot on the floor. The second is to reach into the drawer. Producing the first of her blackbelt certificates. Eyes remaining on Mickey’s the whole while. Lifting a lighter off the table. The paper in her left, the lighter in her right. Flicking, a small yellow flame dancing in the gentleness of her exhale. Contacting the paper dangling in the air between them. Her eyes never leave his as the flames rise up the paper towards her fingers. Letting the fire lick the tips of her fingers as the paper burns and turns to ash. Repeating the process with the second certificate. 

Mickey, uncertain of what to say, of what to do. Staring intently back into the galaxy in her eyes. Calmly swirling around her pupils. Those pieces of paper seemed to be the only personal items of meaning in her room. And she just burned them. Without flinching, without blinking.

“Life is sacrifice. Living it is a choice. Gain, lose. Give, take. Hurt, heal. Remember,” slight shrug of her square shoulders, “or don’t.”

In one fluid motion her boots are securely tied on her feet, her ball cap is snug on her head, aviators hiding her eyes, and she’s walking out the door into the blinding sunshine.

————

Panting, sweating, exhausted. And trapped. Trapped between her deceivingly strong thighs.

“Tap out bitch,” yanking his arm nearly out of socket.

“Fuck,” tapping quickly. Flopping back on the mats, “Jesus.”

“Scrappy. I’ll give you that,” standing over him with a sneer, “not skilled. But scrap can get you places. Think I can work you into something pretty boy,” instead of offering her hands to pull him to his feet, she sighs, plopping down on the mat beside him.

“Can call me Mick,” hands resting loosely around his bent knees.

“Call you whatever the fuck I want. And you’ll answer to it too.”

Scoffing towards her but the galaxy in her eyes stopping any comments from passing his lips. It’s dancing and swirling, sparkling brightly. He can’t stifle the smile that rises when he sees it. Taking him back to the moment he laid eyes on Ian for the first time. Sharp pain of longing lurching through him with the thought of that man. Swallowing it down, attempting again to bury him. 

“The fuck am I doing here anyway?”

“The fuck you think?” running her long skinny fingers through the white blond of her faux-hawk. Tilting her face skyward. Maybe looking for a cloud. 

“I dunno. This morning I’m getting the biggest fuckin’ q-tip known to man shoved up my cock. Now I’m sittin’ here catchin’ an ass beating from some lanky chick.”

“How big was it pretty boy?”

“Fuck you.”

“In your dreams,” turning her face just long enough to flash him a wink. She gets to her feet, reaching back for his hands, a boost to his feet, “eat. Wash up. I’ll tell Rocky you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Long as you don’t got AIDS you’ll find out tomorrow night,” calling over her shoulder as she takes off for a jog down the dirt road winding through more dirt and desert around them. 

“AIDS, the fuck? This some kind of sex thing? The fuck?” 

She was mostly right about the medical exam. Really didn’t need to be so goddamned thorough. Drew enough blood to make even a Southie dizzy. Swear that nosy fuckn’ doctor looked at every single centimeter of his skin. Turn your head and cough, “yeah fuckin okay,” mumbling to himself, getting a cigarette out of his jeans strewn in the dirt. They got him the basics for clothing. Let him take the money and his wallet with him. Left everything else behind. 

Well it ain’t the beach, but it ain’t a cell either. 

————

Dusk has fallen. Blanketing the desert. The sky beginning to twinkle with the brightest stars humankind could witness. Mickey takes a deep breath, leaning his head back against the headrest, letting it bounce along with the rutted road, beginning to notice the soreness from last night setting in. The pain killers the old guy gave him starting to wear off.

The passenger side door opens as the old truck lurches into park. Not withholding a cocky grin when her eyes land on his bruised swollen face, “not bad for a rookie,” taking his arm to help him slide out of the truck, “Garcia take care of ya good?”  
She nods over at Martin, the quiet old man in the driver’s side. He tips his hat to her before taking his leave toward the main house. 

“Alright pretty boy,” only struggling with his weight when it comes to the stairs, depositing him on his cot. Kneeling in front of him to remove his boots, “Senor Garcia’s a good stitch, hey? That won’t even scar,” sweeping her finger in the air over the gash by his hairline. Taking a moment to study his face, “Rocky’ll probably let you take next week off. Get more training in ya before she puts you back in the action. She can’t always control who’ll buy ya. They’re mostly harmless. A couple cartel members you’d do your best to avoid. A few of the Alvarez boys are some seriously twisted fucks but they won’t be sniffing ‘round again for a few weeks.”

Studying his face for a long moment before dropping to his knuckles. Split, but cleaned, “get some sleep. Rocky’ll be by in the mornin’.”

————

A deep breath though his nose. Sweet scent of weed wafting through the open door. The sharp pain of a busted nose forcing a moan from his lips. Fingers rising unconsciously to tenderly feel along the bridge. Someone reset it at least. Taking a quiet mental inventory of all the bumps, bruises, and breaks inside his body as he decides it’s okay to sit up. A second moan exiting without permission.

Eyes clearing slowly, taking note of her empty cot. Sheets tucked tight, flat and unslept on. 

Finding a pair of sweats in the pile under his cot. Stepping into them with aches he’s familiar with. Spent his entire life with these kinds of aches. Mornings without them seem unreal, somehow empty and unfulfilled. Mornings without the aches of a beating, those were the times Terry was locked up. 

Dragging himself to the small bathroom to clean up. At least a little. Cold water feeling amazing on his overheated swollen face.   
She’s standing near the doorway. One foot on the bottom step. The other in the dirt. Bare feet. They’re either bare or clad in combat boots. 

“Mornin’ pretty boy,” offering the joint in her right hand to him.

She watches with a smile as he takes a long toke. Blowing it out slowly through his cracked lips, “that’s some good shit.”

“Buen material genetico,” that cocky grin rising.

“Fuckever.”

She laughs, reading his eyebrows as a meter of his annoyance level, “well you did better than me my first time out. You made it through three rounds. I had you out in one. Rocky won fifty bucks off ya. Well technically she won fifty bucks off the brute that KO’ed ya,” she nudges his arm with her elbow, offering the joint back after her deep inhale, “my take on the night was close to 5K, ain’t bad for midseason.”

His eyebrows are rising further up his forehead, nearing his hairline, blurting out forcefully, “the fuck are we doing here? The fuck am I doing here? No one is answering my questions. No one is giving me any information. The fuck is…”

“You got cash. Leave. Road’s over there,” her chin tipping towards the dirt leading down the hill into just another valley of dirt.

Silence hangs in the air for a long moment as his eyes scan the horizon. No he didn’t have a plan. He never had a plan. The only part he thought through was taking Ian to the beach. Living off what they could lift from tourists. Sleeping on the beach under a blanket of stars. Listening to the sound of the ocean waves as they lulled to sleep in each other’s arms. That was his plan. Being away from prison. Away from Chicago. Regret now eating at him, gnawing day and night. At least behind bars he could still contact his son. The one thing he knew was his. Whether he wanted it or not. It would always be his, even if he wasn’t present in his every day life. Yeah, sometimes when he looks at him he still thinks of that day. Sitting slumped on the couch, barely conscious, watching Ian’s disgusted expression as the whore rode him, his dad’s gun pointed at them the entire time. And fuck, how many times after? How many beatings did he catch from his dad for not fucking the whore. He’d send for her every day it seemed. Close her in his bedroom and she’d report back to Terry when she left. She’d tell him how straight he seemed. And Terry would beat him accordingly. 

“Fuck it,” taking another long toke.

When she takes it back from his hand, their fingers brush against one another. Rising a strange feeling of comfort in his chest, “thing is pretty boy,” taking her time to inhale the sweet feeling of calm, blowing her exhale towards his face gently with a soft pressing of her lips reminiscent of kissing, “everything you love will kill you one day. The booze, the pills, the dust. The fights. The boy with the hypnotic eyes,” shrugging her shoulders, eye contact unfaltering, “pick your poison. And make it count."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels cheap to just copy/paste from another work, but it still feels like the right friendship for Mickey to have in Lou. And this still feels like the right introduction to her even with a different endgame.


	5. Your Shitty Dad And Your Dead Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more about Mickey's first weeks in Mexico.

Your Shitty Dad and Your Dead Mom

 

He watched her. Watched in awe, sitting beside the wrinkled half-bent old woman. Watched as she took down opponent after opponent. Mostly male opponents. Barely breaking a sweat. Winning the night and the pot. 

The old lady kept coaching him through every match. Like he could understand anything she was saying. Turning her attention to her champion on the ride back to the complex. Complex makes it sound fancy, truth is it’s not. But lacking another word to describe it, it’s the one he’s settled on. 

He finds her late that night sitting on the steps leading into their shared room. Raising a tequila bottle to him and motioning for him to take a seat next to her. The bottle is almost empty. 

“Impressive shit tonight,” grunting towards her, lighting a cigarette. 

Eyeing him from head to toe before turning back to look out into the darkness. Not acknowledging in any way the compliment he just gave her. 

“Someone gonna tell me how this shit works yet?”

“Fuck you’re thick.” 

Making show of adjusting his manhood in his pants, knowing she can see it in her peripheral, “so I’ve been told,” he retorts. There’s a certain brass in her voice. A strange part of him wants to make it disappear. Three weeks he’s been around her basically twenty-four-seven and knows next to nothing about her. But he knows her presence. And the weird calming effects it’s been having on him. Like a fuckin’ kindred spirit or some shit.

Expecting narrowed eyes and a ‘you wish’ response, he’s shocked when she wonders, “your dad’s a shit, isn’t he?” when her face turns to watch his.

Studying her eyes, too dim in the glow of the lights spilling through windows to see what those stars are doing. He shrugs.

“You can say it,” she urges, “it feels good. It feels fuckin’ good. Your dad’s a shit. My dad’s a shit. My dad’s such a shit,” her voice growing quieter but anger rising in the tone, “he’s such a fuckin’ shit. And so is yours, isn’t he?”

In the long pause that follows, the silence of a desert night, there’s a pleading in her expression. A yearning to find a release. A person that can relate. That can understand. He gives in, “yeah he’s a shit. Beat my mom to death in front of me when I was seven.”

“That’s shit,” she agrees, groping for the tequila bottle. She takes a swig, handing it back over to Mick. Watching her bare feet in the dirt, “he used to call me ‘ladybug’. ‘Make this one happy ladybug, he’s got the good stuff’. His poison was crack at the time. ‘He’s got the good stuff ladybug, make him happy tonight’. I was twelve.”

Silence the only thing in the air between them for a long time before Mick agrees, “that’s shit.”

Eyes falling on his, this time a half laugh parting her lips when she nods, “yeah it fuckin’ is,” snagging the tequila from him, raising it to the desert surrounding them, “to your shitty dad and your dead mom,” tipping back a shot, handing it back, “finish it. I’m passing out.”

“Hey,” calling over his shoulder before she disappears inside, “what do you do with the money?”

“Money,” she spits into the dirt where her footprints remain, “buy freedom.”

“Buy freedom?” 

No response. Fuck, he might as well be speaking to the dirt half the time instead of her. 

“Fuckin’ Mexico,” grumbling to himself as he finishes the tequila and heads inside for the night.

————

“My fuck, it’s hot,” trying for the umpteenth time to find a sleeping position that doesn’t have him sticking together with sweat. Turning his head to the left. She’s lying on her back. Limbs sprawled. One long leg stretched off either side of her cot. Her lean muscled legs. They’re misted with sweat. She’s wearing nothing but underwear. Those tiny shorts things. And a work-out bra of some sort. 

He watched her earlier prepare another group of women and children for the border crossing. Filling their packs with American dollars, food, water. So the complex isn’t just some training post for a fight club with some seriously fucked up rules. It’s also a freedom outpost. 

Tonight they’re both trying to breathe through the suffocating heat that hasn’t broken in four days. Not even at night.

“You ever been to the beach pretty boy?” three months and she’s still not spoken his name. 

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

She sits suddenly. A wide grin breaking the usual tension in her brow, “fuckin’ get dressed then.”

————

She broke into a luggage cart at one resort. Lifted two bags with luggage tags. Then they strolled in with the crowd getting off a bus at the next resort. She’s leaning into the counter, feigning exhaustion though she snorted enough coke on the drive here to keep her awake for a week, slowly repeating the words of the woman behind the counter, “we don’t have a reservation here,” a heavy sigh, “what does even mean? I know I booked here,” her lip trembling as her eyes fill, “it was all supposed to be a surprise for my husband,” motioning towards Mickey, “a second honeymoon of sorts. It’s only been two years since the first one, but we’re…” her voice breaks off and she lifts her hand to her nose, sniffling. Dropping her gaze as she admits, swallowing tears, “we’ve been trying to have a baby. And it’s not working,” sobbing now, “it’s not working and I just thought. I thought maybe if we could…” she waves her hand in the air between them, “oh Lord above, look at me,” wiping dramatically at her cheeks, “it’s no wonder he isn’t turned on by me. I’m a mess…”

The face of the woman behind the counter is quickly changing from slight annoyance to complete empathy. Reaching out to take her hand when it rises once more, “don’t cry Mrs Jones. We’ll get you situated. I’m sure you’re in the computer somewhere. It’s just a new system. Please let me make you comfortable at the bar while you wait.”

“The pool,” she gasps, half into her hand that’s hiding her face, “the pool please. We’ll wait at the pool.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Impressive,” he grins towards her when they’ve settled into lounge chairs in the glow of the rising sun, drinking mimosas, waiting to be ushered to their room that is no doubt upgraded from their original reservation.

She swallows her mimosa in one gulp, “and fuck me if they don’t comp us for two extra nights.”

“I mean I could try, but I make no promises.”

Eyes sparked with mischief, “It’ll be easy to get you laid ‘round here.”

“Not if if means getting another Q-tip up my cock.”

Her teasing retort stopped by the resort manager approaching, “Mr and Mrs Jones, we are so sorry for the misunderstanding. Your room is ready, please follow me, and please enjoy an extra two nights on top of your original three.”

“You’re too kind,” she smiles, a convincing air of upper class American about her. Reaching for Mickey’s hand that he’s been keeping mostly in his pockets to hide his tattoos. Slipping her fingers between his, “come my love, let’s change out of these wretched travel rags and get to the spa to relax and clean up. First class just isn’t what is used to be, is it?”

Gasping theatrically when the manager pushes the door of the honeymoon suite open. Revealing some kind of romantic shit that people are supposed to get all gooey about. She squeezes Mickey’s hand tight, bringing it to her lips as the perfectly faked glee starts to wear a little around the edges. Covering her snicker with his hand as they part ways with the manager to enter the room.

“Hello, welcome. My name is Pablo,” the small, narrow dark skinned, dark eyed young man wearing a professional smile tells them, “I’ll be your butler,” his accent is thinned out, easy to understand, “should you need anything, you just pick up the phone,” motioning to the bedside table, “ask for Pablo. It would be my pleasure to book your day at the spa. I’ve left a pamphlet with excursions right there next to the phone. You call me when you’ve decided what you’d like to do. I’ve drawn a bath,” his hand sweeps towards the bathroom door, “please take your time to relax. And please do not hesitate to call me when you’re ready.”

“Oh Pablo,” she barely keeps her laughter at bay, but manages to swallow it back down, “we’d love to book a spa day this afternoon. Full body massages on the cabana. Chilled champagne. Your best, and don’t be holding back on me,” squeezing Mickey’s hand again.

He removes a bill from his pocket, not even checking to see what denomination it is, plastering it to Pablo’s palm on his way out, “thank you Pablo. Gracias. Mucho gracias,” being certain to draw out a very American sounding condescension in his tone. 

The door is barely latched when she breaks into laughter, “Pablo my ass. His name is Nick and he grew up in Brownsville. He has to fake his watered down Mexican accent to get better tips. And he takes zero pleasure in drawing baths for spoiled tourists. He does, however, take plenty of pleasure in a European uncut dick in his ass. You ever live like a king before?”

He shakes his head, unable to stifle his own smile reflecting back at hers.

“Well, my love, let’s live like fuckin’ kings.”

————

Sitting on the ledge of the pool. A skimpy bikini and a wide brimmed sunhat from the stolen luggage. Leaning lazily on the palms of her hands, face aimed skyward as her legs rise and fall rhythmically in the chlorinated water. He stands in the waist deep water taking the opportunity to watch her. In an unguarded state she’s more beautiful than he realized. She’s like art or some shit. He’s noticed the scars on her body before. The most identifiable would be the track marks in her arms. They look old, but he’s not asked. She doesn’t try to hide them, it just seems like prying into her life would be dangerous.

Her face tilts suddenly. Leveling him with a glare that clearly reads ‘don’t fuckin’ gawk at me’. Smiling but not dropping the eye contact just yet. His body still feels like Jell-o from the massage earlier. His head bubbly from champagne. Living like kings ain’t bad yet.

She slips into the water, planting herself between him and the pool wall. Her arms resting loosely around his shoulders, “what do ya think love? Shall we find you a butt buddy? How you like ‘em? Aside from ginger and guano?” 

“Guano?”

“Uh, bat shit.”

“How do you even know…”

“All gingers are bat shit. One look at those eyes and he’s a clear unsteady. An unsteady ginger is a completely different level of guano.”

“You looked at one picture one time.”

“All it takes love,” she smiles boldly at him. Sliding down the wall enough to be at eye level, letting her legs rest comfortably around his hips. They’ve been near plenty of times. Every day. The training requires a lot of being wrapped around each other. So this isn’t new, the feel of her body. The closeness of her face. She did admit begrudgingly that he’s a quick learner. He’s been back in the fights a few times. Never making it to final rounds, but not failing too miserably. The auctions after are something he’ll never get used to, or make sense of in his own head. These rich stupid fucks bidding on a fighter for a night or two for their own personal use. So far he’s had three escort jobs and a some weird artist painting nudes. Nothing ending in anything shocking but that artist was laying it on thick. Keeping his fingers bandaged to cover the tattoos is a pretty legitimate thing for someone with bruised and split knuckles. 

“Your six pretty boy,” tipping her head in the direction of a good looking older man.

“Fuck no.”

“Not a worshipper of the silver fox?”

“No.”

“Alright, I can’t be a good wingman if I don’t know what we’re lookin’ for.”

He shrugs, watching her eyes, wondering how much is necessary to spill and how much she’ll conclude on her own, “fuck. I don’t even know anymore.”

Her eyes narrow, “tall? Thin? Pretty-eyed?”

His sigh is heavy, “I don’t know.”

“Jesus, you’re helpful. Top or bottom?”

“I prefer to bottom, but it’s gotta be more than just a one night kind of a thing for that.”

“Really?” eyebrows rising in surprise. If anyone’s brow game can compare to Mickey’s own, it’s hers.

His eyebrows raised when he nods, a silent dare to make a bitch joke. 

“Hmm,” watching him without judgment in her expression, maybe mild confusion. 

Finding himself propping his knee under her butt to support her positioning on him, crouching down in the water until he’s shoulder deep. Silence as she contemplates his statement, he turns the tables, “what about you then? Find you a hook-up, how ‘bout…” jerking his thumb towards a tall blond guy sitting at the bar.

Head shaking slowly, amusement sparkling in her eyes, dragging out a Southern California accent, “on vacation poolside with my novel. Drawing inspiration for my next film,” her eyes roll, “please.”

“Well, what’s your type?”

Pressing her lips together firmly, taking a moment to debate how honest she can be with this man she’s spent nearly every waking hour with for three months. She’s observed and gathered her own thoughts about him. Finally she responds slowly and unemotionally, “I’ve been traded, sold, and raped. I don’t have a type. The chase is the thrill. The act is…” she shrugs.

Not knowing how to respond. Knowing she doesn’t want pity or sympathy. The galaxy floating in the light blue of her eyes, it’s calm. Peaceful and easy. She’s made her surrender to the life she leads. The life she was forced to lead from an early age.

“So what is sex anyway?” she wonders quietly, “a tool? A power move? A passionate night with a stranger? A token of love and affection? Procreation? A human desire to not be alone in the end? Love? What is love? An emotion that makes sane humans act insane. Something that blinds you to the world around you. Something that mutes the bad and amplifies the good. Makes you feel wonderful and disastrous at once. An emotion that will kill you in the end. And all we truly have in the end is ourselves. Maybe it’s all we truly need.”

He has no idea where to begin. Or where to end. Supposing he’d never thought of it as anything more than a physical desire when he was young. Realizing with Ian what it meant to make love. Realizing through his father what it meant as a power move. Procreation with a Russian whore. 

And here he is. Counting on himself. And this woman. This woman who is snaking her way into his brain. He’s gaining a true appreciation for her. A mentor, a training partner, forcing him to think of things in ways he’s never before. And a survivor. A true survivor. 

“C’mon,” tilting her head to the deep end, “let’s swim pretty boy.”

“I can’t.”

“Yeah you can. Everybody can. We swam before we breathed. It’s our nature.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the reason I loved writing these two is because they're like funhouse mirror versions of each other. Spotted histories that include violence, twisted family relationships, fierce independence. I gave her enough similarities to Mickey so that she'd be someone he could trust quickly, and she's been through enough of her own shit that she can understand him easily and won't ever judge him.


	6. A Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian on the first trip to the border, at Monica's funeral, and on his own.

A Match

 

He finally drifted off with the scent of Mickey under his nose. That deeply human, never replicated scent. ‘Do you love Mickey?’ ‘I like how he smells.’ Because how could any of it be explained to Carl? How could the feeling, the part where you’ve never breathed a fresh breath of air until you’ve laid eyes on him, how could that be explained? How could the part where you never felt whole until you held him in your arms, how could that part be put into words for a teenage boy? And that chemical part, that part where the entire universe comes crashing down around you when your lips are against his, how could that part be said aloud? 

‘Do you love Mickey?’ Always. With every single part of my being. 

He wakes when that scent is gone. Empty arms, head full of doubts once again. And the sound of Mickey snapping branches under foot as he finds just the right spot to piss in the grass, or just the right tree to write his name on. For two winter-bound little boys, nothing was ever more fun than writing their names in a stream of yellow pee on a virgin white snowbank. 

‘No more freezing our asses off… Sandals and tequila…’

Sandals and tequila. But Ian can’t drink on his meds. And Ian doesn’t know how to pick pockets. And he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to live like that. Day to day, not knowing where he’ll lay his head down for the night. Not knowing when his next meal will be. He can’t take his meds on an empty stomach. Those couple thousand dollars will only get them so far. Then what? And how will he get refills? How will he keep himself stable in a life that holds absolutely no chance of stability? 

These last couple days, fuck, he actually feels. He feels everything through his meds. It’s become so clear that the numbness that he was walking through, the fog as thick as pea soup, it wasn’t the meds. It was the lack of fire. Fire in his chest, under his hands every time they trail any part Mickey’s body. 

‘Mickey would light a match to that’. Ian needs a fucking match. 

————

“My pilot light was out, and Monica was the gas company. She taught me how to live, she changed everything… We loved a lot. We fought a lot…”

He went home. He went home to find out his mother was dead. His mother, the only one who understood him. And he sat there. At the funeral. And listened. Listened to Frank, the only person that truly understood Monica. The only person that truly loved her, unconditionally. Their relationship was fucked up, there was no denying that, but love was never a question between them. 

Ian knows Trevor is sitting right next to him. He knows he’s there because he looked at him. He looked at him. And felt nothing. Nothing. He doesn’t feel his body heat next to him. He doesn’t hear his thoughts as though they’re his own. The way he often did with Mickey. And he doesn’t care. He left that part of him on the border. He can’t care. He can’t be Frank and Monica. He can’t allow himself to love to a point of self-destruction. He can’t do that to himself. Or to Mickey. He left his fire at the border. And he feels nothing. He feels nothing but the fog of medication overtaking his brain. He feels nothing but bone tired and a sturdy reliable pain in his chest. A pain in his chest that took over on the bus ride home. A low throbbing at first. Not much different than a post-workout heavy beating, jarring his ribs. The further away from the border he got, the worse it felt. 

And now, looking over at Trevor sitting next to him at his mother’s funeral. It tears. It tears through his soul. It is pain. It is a part of him breaking free from his body, he’ll blame it on the corpse in the coffin. He’ll blame it on his mother’s dead body. That’s the pain. It’s the pain of losing her. A choice he didn’t make. He made a choice to lose Mickey forever.

He wants to feel it. He wants to feel the pain of losing his soul. And losing his mother. He wants to feel it fully. So he flushes his next dose of meds. Knowing eventually when it catches him, Fiona will look through his pills, eventually she’ll check. He won’t be able to mourn this with a head full of fog. He needs to mourn this. He’ll get back on them when the process is over, when the pain in his chest subsides. He’ll start taking them again then. He’ll stick to his schedule by flushing, he’ll keep getting his refills. And they’ll be there, they’ll be there when he decides he’s felt the pain he deserves. This is a wound too deep to ignore, it won’t heal under a bandage. 

————

“Should work,” jabbing his elbow into Ian’s side. His plan. It’s exactly a plan Ian should expect from Mickey. A dress, a wig, and a fake ID. Michelle. 

He shrugs, “thought you weren’t going to start wearing dresses,” he smiles but he can feel that it’s not very convincing.

“Fuck you,” that’s not very convincing either. And now there’s an elephant sitting between them. A big stubborn elephant from their past. And they should talk about it. It’s here, and they should talk about it. But they’ve never been good at that. 

So instead, he smiles, “thought you’d have stayed in prison if you wanted to fuck a dude,” shaking his head as it comes out of his mouth. Silently chastising himself for throwing it in Mickey’s face once again. ‘You think my life hasn’t moved on since you were locked up?’. 

His gaze falters. Fuck, it’d hurt less if Ian just reached out and punched him. ‘Sure Mick, I’ll wait’. The words have practically tattooed themselves on Mickey’s ears, wrapping around them like a snake. Like a tiny black-inked snake, ‘sure Mick, I’ll wait’. Black ink. The image of a raw, infected prison tattoo. Jesus, fuck, fuck. Could have at least pretended to see the romantic gesture. Could have least pretended it was appreciated, after Ian spent so much time trying to force him out of the closet. Now it’s there, it’s right there in black ink on his chest. Permanent black ink, and Ian couldn’t even acknowledge the brave declaration of love in a dangerous world like prison, and the permanent label that he would always belong to Ian. Even if it was spelled wrong. But, what the fuck, he knows how spell Gallagher. Ian knows that. So what the fuck? 

He finally feels those eyes rise to meet his. God, they’ve been fucking half-clothed this whole time, Ian hasn’t seen it, hasn’t been able to bring it up, apologize for acting like a complete asshole. He didn’t have to tell him that Svetlana had to pay him, pay him to sit there and stare at him, laugh at his choice to proclaim a life-long love. All he wanted for the first two years they were banging was some kind of fucking commitment. And then he got one. Fuck, he got one. He got a million. Even when he was fucking around and fucking everything that moved, and throwing himself off a fucking cliff; Mickey was still committed. Committed to loving him and helping him. ‘It means we take care of each other’. 

“It must have hurt,” he hears himself whisper. 

Not sure Mickey’s heard it. His lack of response could be anything right now. Watching Ian’s eyes intently. Finally he shrugs, “no more than anything else.”

“But you don’t…”

“Let’s go firecrotch,” getting quickly to his feet, “want to make the border about noon. It’ll be least staffed then,” wiping his hands on his jeans before reaching out for Ian’s. 

They never held hands. The only time Ian ever reached for Mickey’s hand was when they were fucking. Mickey’s hands were always reaching, grabbing, scrabbling for something anything to hold onto. A cigarette, a can of beer, a crow bar, a lead pipe, any weapon. A throat to clench down on. And when they fucked, those hands were so fucking restless Ian would hold them down. Making sure it wasn’t his asscheek that Mickey was latching down on, leaving finger-shaped bruises. Holding his arms down in fear he’d push him away. Holding his arms down, sometimes he’d slide his fingers between Mick’s, but he never held his hand. 

The contact is overwhelming. Ian feels the muscles in his legs twitching. Wanting to take flight. Grip releasing as soon as he’s on his feet. How does Mickey look so fucking certain about all of this? About Mexico? About tequila and sandals? About us? How is he so certain about us?

————

Ian sits up in the grass. Rubbing his eyes lazily, blinking at the morning sun. His eyes scanning the railroad bridge in broad daylight. 

‘Let’s go firecrotch.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timelines obviously won't match up right away, I hope this skipping around with Ian isn't too weird. There were a couple of blanks I wanted to fill in, but had no desire to try to sort through all of season 8 because season 8 basically sucked and I don't want to rewatch it, plus we all saw it so no need to rehash it just to make his timeline mesh with Mickey's in Mexico.   
> Holler at me if the skipping around gets too confusing, I debated putting dates on some of the sections, but then since I can't keep the timeline straight in my own head as far as canon events are concerned I decided that actually wouldn't help.


	7. The Blue-Eyed Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where Mickey's storyline starts to change from Tell Me About Mexico.

The Blue-Eyed Crow

 

Fuck. That fucking scent. The pillows in this suite. Lavender or some shit. Fuck, it’s gross. 

He rolls to his back, fingers meeting his eyelids for a long rub before opening. Blinking away the fog of deep sleep. He can feel her eyes on him, but it doesn’t feel intrusive. He doesn’t even turn his head to look at her. She lets him wake in silence. Watching the fan spinning slowly on the ceiling, wondering if it’s moving air at all. It certainly doesn’t feel like it. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, rolling to his side to face her.

She’s soft in this light. Her lips are pursed as her long skinny finger reaches out, tapping his chest gently, “the mystery, the magic, or the myth?”

He should have kept watching the fan, taking a deep breath, “just a cover-up tattoo.”

“Fuck that. If it was just a cover-up, you’d have picked somethin’ like a flag, or tribal symbol, or some other overused design that means nothing to you. So what is it? A harbinger of death? You practice witchcraft?” her eyebrow rises with a smirk, “you want to control the universe? Channeling your second sight? Or the symbol of ancient wisdom?”

“I should have pretended I was still asleep.”

“Yeah, well your fists stop clenching when you wake up.”

“Fuck you watchin’ me sleep for?”

“Nothin’ else to watch around here,” she shrugs, “aside from the old guy across the courtyard who keeps scratching his balls. He’s also been working on the same sudoko puzzle for like a half hour,” she rolls her eyes, then rolls to the side table for a joint. Sparking it up and handing it over, “spill it.”

“Three months, and you’re just now curious?”

“No, just took me three months to decide I couldn’t figure it out. Only thing I can figure is that crows are unafraid. They are absolutely fearless. Will attack bigger stronger birds without hesitating.”

“Well I certainly ain’t fearless.”

“No?” she takes the joint back for a long toke, “I’ve seen you fight pretty boy.”

He watches the smoke swirling away from her lips, up towards the spinning ceiling fan. He watches it sway in the breeze and dissipate, “full story?”

“I love stories.”

“Fuck it,” reaching for the joint. Mexican weed. Fuck, it’s good, “I was locked up. Attempted murder.”

She snorts, “figured as much about you.”

“Fuck’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Exactly what is sounded like. Continue.”

“First time in big boy prison. Nothin’ like juvie. Learned that real quick. Started spendin’ more and more time alone. No one ever visited me. No family, no friends. My bitch wife sometimes brought the kid along, but I didn’t want him seeing me there. He was still young, but wouldn’t be too long before he’d remember that shit. Being alone behind bars, isolating yourself, it ain’t smart. But no one’s ever accused me of bein’ smart anyway so… my cellmate and I got really high one night. I tattooed a name on my chest. Fuckin’ spelled it wrong I was so high…”

She coughs on her own spit, “please tell me it was your guano ginger’s name.”

“Fuck off.”

“So it was.”

“Yeah. Next day he shows up. Only time. I forgot I even tattooed that shit until I was looking right at him through the glass. Fuck,” the memory of his face. His words. His complete disgust in the inked gesture, “fuckever. Bitch wife keeps making deals with Russian mafia pricks inside. I gotta do the grunt work, stab a guy in the eye, stab a guy in the kidneys, rough a guy up a little. Whatever. Didn’t fuckin’ matter anymore anyway,” his voice trails off. ‘Sure Mick, I’ll wait’. 

“Fuck. So shit goes bad. I end up takin’ a fuckin’ beating for one of the deals my wife made. More than that, it…” his voice trails off again. What the fuck words are there for that? His gaze shifts to the smoke rising from her lips again. Knowing there won’t be pity on her face, there won’t be disgust or horror. But that doesn’t mean he can look at her, “I start havin’ dreams about crows. Every single fuckin’ night. The nights I could sleep anyway. They’re flying, they’re circling, they’re sitting in trees. There’s one where I’m standing in the open courtyard of the abandoned buildings where I used to shoot guns and get fucked up. I’m standin’ there and it’s standing there. It’s watchin’ me. And I can’t move. Like I’m fuckin’ trapped in the same fuckin’ spot. I have that one over and over. So I finally look it up when I’m at the library one day. All this stupid fuckin’ dream interpretation shit online. None of it makes any sense. These dreams go on for fuckin’ months. During these months shit just keeps getting worse. My dumb bitch wife doesn’t even visit me anymore, comes in one day with divorce papers. Won’t bring my kid by anymore. And I still didn’t want to see him anyway, just…” his fingers rise to grind into his eyes. Forcing back the sting. Always stinging.

“One night, this dream, I’m a kid. In my old bed. In my home. I’m seven, I wake up and there’s the crow. Sitting on the edge of my bed. It has blue eyes.”

————

“Good morning sleepy face,” her body weight on the bed next to him, her soft gentle hand on his shoulder, “my sleepy face,” voice sing-song, each syllable dripping with her remaining Ukrainian accent, “my favorite sleepy face,” cooing at her favorite son, “time to get up,” when the ocean behind his eyelids becomes visible. She smiles, but even to the seven year old blinking sleep away there’s something heavy behind it, something weighing her down, pinching her features with worry. Her gentle finger reaches to trace the bruising around her son’s eye, “your siblings are off to school. You’re going to be late,” not a warning, a statement, “we’ll need to talk.”

Moments later a tired Mickey begrudgingly appears in the kitchen. Face scrubbed clean, teeth brushed but still blinking sleep from his swollen eyes. 

“Sit,” using the spatula to point to the chair on the end. Facing her back at the stove as she flips the french toast. Watching her load a plate for him. Pouring coffee for herself and sitting across the table with a supportive smile, “eat.”

Apprehensive for a hungry boy, uncertain of this strange morning. The quiet in the house without his siblings. His father still passed out after a night of heavy drinking. Thinking of his father he absently reaches, gingerly touching the bridge of his nose.

“My sweet Mikhailo,” taking his small hand as it drops back toward the table, “my sweet, difficult baby boy. Do you know why your father hit you last night?”

“Because I said I’m going to marry Mathew Bowden when I grow up.”

“Do you understand why he hit you?” squeezing his hand tight, voice growing desperate.

“Because Milkoviches aren’t queer.”

Both of her hands wrapping around her son’s small one now, leaning her face toward his perfect angelic one, “my sweet Mikhailo, this is hard to understand. It will always be hard to understand. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with being attracted to, or in love with, other boys. There will never be anything wrong with love, no matter the form it takes. But your father, he,” trailing off to find words that may possibly suffice, blinking back tears, “your father doesn’t like things that are different from him. He doesn’t like people that are different than him. He thinks that violence is the answer to everything in life. He thinks he can beat the differences out of people. As you grow older should you find your attractions to other boys growing stronger, please promise me Mikhailo that you will keep those emotions hidden from your father. Please,” the squeezing on his hand becoming painful, the desperation in her eyes strengthening to blur the ocean of blue, “promise me Mikhailo.”

“I promise,” his voice barely squeaking out of his lips.

“I love you my sweet difficult perfect boy. I love you exactly as you are…”

Her words cut off in her throat when an angry fist connects with the side of her head. Taking a fistful of raven black hair to drag her off the chair, slamming her face again and again into the stove. 

————

Her finger appears again, this time it traces the wings in long delicate swoops, “that’s pretty fuckin’ cool love. So much more than a cover-up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the crow for a ton of reasons, there is so much symbolism attached to that particular bird in so many cultures. You could seriously spend hours upon hours reading about crows and still not have a totally clear picture in your mind about how you want to interpret them. I'm mildly fascinated by them and absolutely annoyed with them when they wake me with their cawing at five am in the summer!
> 
> So if Mickey's blue-eyed crow is his mother, why do you suppose she'd approach him in the courtyard of the old buildings? Think maybe she disapproves of him kicking Ian in the face, or think she wanted him to know he wasn't alone after the corrective rape?
> 
> Also, I know I'm an asshole for putting Mickey through even more shit in prison. But this is why I can't get on board with prison endgame for these two - we have a max here in my hometown and I've heard stories from a family member who was a prison guard for twenty plus years. Max or not, I just don't see it being a happy ending especially after rolling on a cartel and being Gay Jesus.


	8. The Pacific

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months in Mexico.

The Pacific 

 

“Alright,” Mickey startles awake when something thunks down on his chest. Waking with clenched fists and the immediate desire to punch something, “pack some shit for a week,” she orders, “we gotta head to TJ.”

“TJ?” fuck, blinking sleep away, groping at the item that landed on his chest. Feels like a backpack.

“Tijuana. Gotta meet a couple of Oceanside boys, move some supplies. Then we got a few days, see the ocean on the Pacific side. Do some surfing,” her eyebrow raises.

“Yeah, okay,” not stifling the sarcasm, pulling himself to seated on his cot. Fingers still working at his closed lids, “I ain’t crossin’ the border.”

She snorts, “think I’m that stupid?”

Six months, six months and he still can’t figure what exactly this woman wants with him. He racked up some pretty good cash at last week’s fight, just has to figure out a way to get some of it back to Yev. Mandy, maybe. Fuck. Pay Ian back, fuck him for thinking his money would make a fuckin’ difference. It’s still in it’s original envelope, Lou gave him access to a safe, root cellar of the main house. It’s weird, the whole thing is. But the thing is, Mexico wasn’t going to be a fuckin’ picnic. He knew that. As much as he played it out in his head to be some kind of paradise, he knew better. He knew he’d cross that border with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a bounty on his head. Thought he’d end up workin’ a cartel or some shit. That’s the life he knows, just a lot more brutal. Cutting guy’s limbs off and watching them bleed out slowly, ain’t his style, but if it meant survival then fuckever. 

But here. This place. Training to fight in an organized sport, the rules are much more lax than any MMA matches in the US. Lou said they used to do death matches once a year, but the cartel put a stop to that when their top fighter was killed. Fuckin’ Mexico. But it ain’t the streets of Chicago. And that’s okay with Mickey.

Blinking the spots away to watch her checking the blade of one of her knives, smirking at him, “get your pretty ass through the shower. We got shit to do.”

————

The bonfire is warm. The Pacific air is chilly. The waves crashing the shore are lulling. Sand in his shorts, a beer in his hand. It ain’t Ian. It ain’t tequila. But it’s okay. 

Yeah it’s okay. And if the blonde guy with the pretty blue eyes looks at him again, it might be more than okay. 

A sharp familiar elbow meets his ribs, a joint pinched between her fingers as she exhales towards the fire, “he’s single.”

He half-chokes on the smoke in his lungs, coughing it away to the sight of her smirk. No verbal response, just raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, no one noticed you checking out his ass earlier. He’s single,” she repeats with a wink, “so are you.”

“Well, I…”

“You are single. Maybe it’s time,” her smirk has shifted into something resembling a smile, an actual smile, “six month mourning period. Long enough,” shrugging. She won’t ask him, won’t bring it up, but Mickey’s not stupid. He knows by now Ian has had plenty of lovers. Or gone back to his boyfriend at the very least. 

“Fuck, I don’t know, just,” sighing, leaning back on his elbows in the sand. 

She falls to her back beside him with a sigh, “shit happened in prison.”

“Yeah and it’s, I don’t know, like I can’t push it away sometimes,” he has no idea why he’s so honest with this woman. Maybe it’s the weed.

“I hear ya. Thing is, it ain’t like you’re going to swear off sex forever just ‘cause some piece of shit behind bars took something from you that you can’t get back. You can’t get it back. You never will. But what you can get back is the control. Out here, right here, tonight. Tomorrow, whenever. A week from now. Doesn’t matter when. Physical desires, love. Doesn’t have to be anything more than a one night fling, not a replacement of your guano ginger, not an eraser of the prison shit. Just have some fun. A little fun never hurt.”

‘What’s wrong with fun?’

Tilting his head back to look at the stars. They’re so fucking bright here. And there’s so many of them. The only place he ever saw stars like this in Chicago was in those green irises. The ones he thought he’d spend a lifetime looking into. Counting each and every shooting star, not needing a blanket or the darkness of the night to do it.

The lit joint appears in front of his face again, he takes it, leaning all the way back now, “so, uh, how you know them?”

She lets out a weird laugh sounding thing, “turns out blondie with the pretty eyes is my half brother.”

“Huh?” rolling to his side to face her. 

Her hand is tucked behind her head, tilting her face to watch him in the glow of the bonfire, “yeah. So they, uh, basically steal shit for a living. They used to do banks, then the redhead did time, significant time. He’s even more guano than your guano,” reaching for the joint from him, “but he ain’t bad. They all got the same mom. None of ‘em have the same dad. I tried to track my dad down about a year ago. I don’t know what I was plannin’ on doin’ once I found him. Revenge maybe,” she shrugs, “all I could track down was that guy,” she motions towards her half-brother, “he’s never met him. But, it turned out they needed a new supplier, get their shit from Mexico, can’t be tracked. That way if a tool is left behind on a job site, no one’s any wiser.”

“You’re tellin’ me they’re good enough thieves that they don’t work day jobs?”

“Yeah, their mom is, she’s kind of fucked up. But she trained them from the time they were young. Started small. Pick-pockets, cars, worked up to convenience stores. Banks, shit like that. Now they’re so deep in it, they did a job on a fuckin’ Marine Corps base, ripped off a wedding on a luxury yacht. They’re good at what they do. Deran’s tryin’ to go straight, bought a bar. Wants to be a legit businessman,” another shrug, “hope he does. He ain’t a bad guy. Just raised wrong. Just like all of us.”

“Fuck, takes balls to…”

“Yeah and I’m sure he’d put his right in your pretty little mouth if you…”

“Fuck off.”

“Fine,” her eyebrow is up in a wicked arc, “I will,” rising to her feet with a wink. 

Nearly as soon as her presence is gone a new one appears at his side. Sitting down gently with a sigh, rolling a joint on the surface of his surfboard, “you, uh, work with my sister?”

“Yah.”

“Cool.”

Fuckin’ Californians. But his head turns, looking over at Mickey and Mickey feels his lips rise into some kind of smile. Something natural and he feels it, he feels this guy’s presence. And it’s a lot like his sister’s. Calming. Or maybe it’s the weed. He watches the guy’s lips as he lights the joint, taking a long inhale, holding it in as he hands it over to Mickey. Only exhaling when the joint contacts his lips. Blowing it out slowly, fuck, they may not have known each other until adulthood, but they have some seriously similar mannerisms. This guy’s got a beard. And long hair. Their looks couldn’t really be much different. Same coloring. That’s about all. 

“Mexico, huh?”

Wow, stifling the urge to roll his eyes. Guy’s hot. Not exactly Mickey’s type, but Mickey isn’t sure he has a type anymore. He has an Ian. And that all he’s ever had. And maybe it’s time. It’s time to move on, it was time to move on as soon as he sat on the other side of that plexiglass, ‘sure Mick, I’ll wait’, “yeah. Had some shit I had to get away from back in Chicago,” shrugging it off, “what do you do?”

“I bought a bar,” taking the joint back when it’s handed over. Sitting comfortably in the sand, elbows lax around his bent knees, looking like he grew up on a beach, “trying to make a go of it. Kind of a dive, but it’s cool.”

Fuckin’ hipsters. 

“You ever been to California?”

“Nah. Never out of Chicago ’til…” clearing his throat, “about six months ago.”

“First time to the Pacific?”

“Yeah. Lou tried to teach me how to swim at some resort awhile back. But I ain’t ready for the ocean.”

His brows rise a little, “really? I thought Chicago was on Lake Michigan. And you don’t swim?”

“Ain’t exactly from the money side of the city.”

“Oh,” clearly this guy has no idea what it’s like to fight for a meal. He might steal for a living, but Mickey doubts he’s ever stolen to live. His gaze drops to Mickey’s mouth, watching it as he wonders, “you guys staying for a few days?”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

“We’ll get you swimming before you leave,” he promises, “it’s something you have to experience. The ocean that is. It’s…” he sighs, every single part of his body relaxed before he shrugs, a smile rising, “I’ll take you out on a board tomorrow. Mask and snorkel, it’ll blow your mind.”

————

“You tried to drown your own nephew, you really think I’m gonna trust you to take out my guy? Get fucked,” she grunts at him, snagging the masks from his hand, “fuckin’ idiot,” she’s smiling as she stalks towards Mickey, telling him quietly, “doubt he’d let you drown, but I don’t actually trust him just yet. So, better safe than shark meat,” winking, “you two can fuck later. I got you on this. Hope your ghost-white back is loaded with sunscreen, fuck, you ever see sunshine? Six months in Mexico and you still look like Casper.”

She trades the surf board for a paddle board. He feels like a bitch sitting on the damn thing while she stands up and paddles them out to a reef. It’s shallow the whole way out, he can see the bottom, could probably touch it for the majority of the distance. Though he’s not comfortable swimming, the surface of the ocean is calm, the woman who’s guiding him is calm, and he’s got nothing to fuckin’ lose. So why the fuck not?

Might be why he started trusting this bitch so quickly. Only thing he’s got to lose is his life. And his life doesn’t matter. Not to anyone but himself. He ain’t about to give up, but if you only live once, might as well do it right. 

He can hear the others nearby. But he’s focused only on her actions. 

“Ready for this?” she wonders, handing him a mask and snorkel, “face down, ass up. You should be used to that,” she jabs. 

“Funny,” grumbling while he situates, feeling her doing the same beside him. 

Sun warm on his back. Ocean salty and cool beneath him. The paddle board gently rocking with the movement of the water. This was something he never pictured himself doing. Growing up in the Southside, this was never a dream of his. Not until he broke out of prison. On the run, it wasn’t foreign to him. But this time it was all or nothing. Damon was the one who always talked about the beaches here. The white sand, the blue water seemingly stretching on for an eternity in the photo he looked at. Fuck, he could see them sitting there. Watching the sunset together. 

Shit, shaking his head for dredging it up again. Again. Like thinking about him can fill that void. The image of the two of them in his mind can somehow make it real. It only makes it hurt more. It’s time. It’s time to move on. To do this. For himself. He’s got some fuckin’ freedom, freedom he took back for himself, and he doesn’t know how long it’ll last. Could be over tonight. Or tomorrow. Could be a year or a decade. 

Either way, when his focus shifts away from the colors beneath them, from the life, the world under the waters; it lands on Deran. Surfer burn-out look aside, he’s hot. So Cal attitude, growing up with money. They probably got nothing in common. But does it fuckin’ matter? What is sex anyway? 

One thing Mickey is certain of, he’s never had a passionate night with a stranger. He’s had one-night stands. Mostly women. Trying to convince himself to want something he didn’t want. A few dudes, just for a body’s need of another warm body. But the only time he’s ever had any passion-driven anything was Ian. The only time he’s ever had sex he enjoyed was Ian. The only time he felt fully present in it, was Ian. Now, he can’t have Ian. Ian didn’t want to be here. So he’s not here. But Deran is. And Deran is somebody that Mickey could easily find passion for, he knows this as he watches the muscles in his shoulders and back flex while he pulls himself through the water. He knows this as he watches his ass and legs kicking lazily but powerfully. And he knows this as the guy’s head reappears above the surface of the water with a grin. The sun sparkling off the ocean reflecting in his eyes when they land on Mickey, a rush of physical desire burning through his body for the first time in six months. Yeah, it’s time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things about this chapter:
> 
> Yes, those are the Codys from Animal Kingdom. If you do watch it, yes this is a weird coupling. I've had an urge to write a fiction for Animal Kingdom, but doubt I have the knack for plot lines that intense. I've inserted Lou into their life around the time Baz started pulling back and Marco ended up being their Mexico connection - we'll pretend Lou stepped up to the plate at that point and maybe the Marco storyline never happened. This particular scene would coincide at a time when Deran is starting to gain comfort in his sexuality and is still exploring - we'll say somewhere between random bar hook-ups and Linc. 
> 
> If you don't watch Animal Kingdom, you don't have to in order to understand what I use them for in this fic. But you should because it's a good show. And yes, this is a weird coupling. But it might only be weird because we've never seen Mickey enjoy sex with anyone who wasn't Ian. I would like for Mickey to have an enjoyable sexual experience outside of Ian. I know Ian's sexual history is spotty as far as enjoyment is concerned, maybe we'll tackle some of that later, maybe not. 
> 
> I figure it this way, if we can imagine Mickey with a little smooch from the sun sitting on a beach with a beer in his hand, then we can picture him having some meaningless sexual explorations with another dude. I'll spare the details, and no it's not going to turn into anything serious. But, what's wrong with a little fun?
> 
> I've added a chapter at the end (62) that fleshes this fling out a little more. Just some snippets into the no-strings-attached thing that can actually have some healing power for Mickey. It won't interest everyone to see Mickey getting physical with Deran, but it also reveals a little plot that Mickey wouldn't exactly be comfortable sharing with people in his circle.


	9. Purgatorio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Ian make it beyond the border?

Purgatorio

 

Fuck. Fuck. Oh, taking a deep breath that shakes, fuck. He made it. He made it across the border. And now he’s fighting with himself. Fighting to keep breathing. Fuck. Fighting with the acid in his stomach to stay in his stomach. Fighting to stay in his goddamned skin. He made it. That was the finish line. Right? That was the finish line. Fuck. Fuck, not this time. Fingers drumming on the wheel, left foot dancing on the floor mat of the stolen vehicle. Vision starting to jump.

Fighting with himself to breathe. Just breathe. Thinking he’ll find a spot. He’ll drive for awhile. An hour minimum. Then he’ll find a spot, a hotel of some sort. Somewhere he can sleep it off. He’s barely inside the border and he’s barely inside his skin. He took his meds, he knows he did. And he double checked. It’s just the stress. It’s just the repeating in his head. The name, Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. It’s all he can hear in his ears. Echoing in his head. It’s all that matters now. Maybe all that ever mattered. Mickey. And he’s getting closer by the minute. He has no idea where he’s fucking going. He has no idea if Mickey is even still in Mexico. Or alive. But he knows he’s getting closer. 

Fuck. Just breathe. His heart thrumming in his ears. In his throat. Fuck, his heart is everywhere now. Thumping and thudding. He can feel it flinging itself against his ribcage, jarring his entire body with every single pump. Fuck, fuck. He can’t breathe. His focus is jumping. He can’t see. 

Find a spot. Find a spot and pull over. Just somewhere to sleep. Just somewhere to take a sedative and sleep this off. He can’t let this last. He can’t let this spread. It’s only in his chest now. It’s only at the beginning. He can stop this now. He can stop it before it becomes full flight. Stop it now when it’s just a flutter.

Something grabs his attention to the shoulder of the road. Turn. Just turn. The road is dirt. He follows it for some time before he feels like he’s suffocating even with the window open. Just a break, just going to do some breathing, maybe some jumping jacks to burn off some anxious energy, maybe a few jogging laps around the car. That’s all. Just burn off some nervous, anxious energy. Just enough to stay inside his own skin. That’s all. 

He’s going to do this. He’s going to make it. Make it to Mickey. That’s all that counts. But to get there, he has to keep himself sane. He knows this. He repeats this to himself over and over and over. And over. Until he’s run too far. He’s moved too quickly. Shit. Shit, scanning the horizon where the sun is bright and blinding. Where all he can see is more dirt and more hills, and more desert scrub. And a sign.

He nears it apprehensively. It’s handmade. Just a piece of wood nailed to another piece of wood. The word is in black paint.

PURGATORIO

Fuck. That’s not at all terrifying. 

Breathe. Just breathe.

“I can do this,” taking in the deep, never-ending scent of desert. It’s not that bad, it’s hot. The sun is too bright. The sky is too open. But it’s not that bad. 

‘Us. The beach.’

“I can do this,” he hears his own voice. It sounds like it’s a million miles away through the blood rushing in his ears. The thoughts coming at him too quickly, panic rising, “breathe. Just fucking breathe.”

He closes his eyes. It’s only a blink. It truly is only a blink. Opening them to the bright blinding light of the desert sun. A deep breath. Walk. This time, walk. Find the car. Find a place to sleep it off. He’s grasping for one solid thought. One thing he can repeat in his head. One thing to hold, he can hold through every thing else that is blurring and blinking through his mind. 

Mickey. 

Mickey.

Every footstep. Every breath. Is Mickey. It’s all Mickey.

“I can do this,” he reminds himself every few steps. Gaining his bearings. Searching through his mind like a rolodex for ROTC training. Searching for an internal compass. Searching for the image of the paper map. 

PURGATORIO

Fuck. A circle. One circle, “I can do this,” reminding himself as his eyes close. He feels his hand rise beside him. Grabbing for something, anything, to lend support. Through the air beside him he hears the whooshing of wings taking flight. His eyes startle open to the sound of a crow’s caw. Jesus, he nearly touched the damn bird, it must have been sitting on the sign he’s leaning against now. Looking skyward as the black bird caws again. Circling him once. Then landing. Maybe thirty feet away from where he’s standing. It’s looking at him. Standing in the dirt looking at him. Brown eyes holding his gaze steady. Was he really expecting blue? 

Fuck. Shaking his head to himself. The crow caws again, this time tilting it’s head up before dipping back down quickly. Almost like a nod.

“What the fuck?”

Suddenly everything is getting clear. The ground is staying put at his feet. The sky is a separate entity from the Earth, and it has an ending. The horizon is no longer a blur. He takes a deep breath. And blinks. 

The crow is flying now. And he’s following it. Without telling himself to, he’s following it. Without thinking about it. He’s moving. Echoing in his ears again is a name. The same name. The same name that has constantly echoed in his ears and lived on his tongue since he was fourteen years old. The same name that has constantly appeared in his eyelids. Every single time he blinks. Sometimes it’s only a flicker, like a candle flame just as it’s being extinguished. Sometimes it’s the bright neon sign over a bar. Sometimes it’s just a light, calming glow. Like right now. Right now when he blinks. It’s the thing that centers. 

‘Will you? Wait?’

‘Sure Mick, I’ll wait.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have experience with desert in Mexico, nor have I done any research. My experience comes from the Mojave of Southern California (29 Palms). So this is how my desert in Mexico will look. I personally think deserts are trippy, especially the back route from 29 Palms to Vegas, so some of that opinion will show in this fic.


	10. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pit-stop on the way home from the Pacific.

Purgatory

 

“The fuck we goin’?”

Hungover, hot, tired. Fucked into oblivion last night. Leaning back against the headrest to watch the coast turn into city, turn into rock, turn into desert. But she’s not headed back to the complex just yet. 

“He’s getting more adjusted to his surroundings every minute,” her head turns and he feels her eyes on him through the tint of her sunglasses.

“What?” growling.

“Fuck, you’d think post-sex glow would actually glow. Sore ass, or what?”

“Fuck you,” his middle finger rising between them.

“Nah. Think fucking my brother is the closest you’ll ever get,” smirking.

There’s a little flush rising in his neck and he’s hoping she doesn’t notice. Adjusting his focus out the window again, “the fuck no one have air-conditioning in their fuckin’ vehicles for?”

She snorts out a laugh, “subject change. Fine. ‘Cause it ain’t worth rechargin’ it. Maybe we all like the feeling like a giant blow drier is being aimed in the open windows.”

“Fuckever.”

The silence lasts all of a breath before her knuckles meet his arm, a hard tap, “smoke this and quit being such a bitch.”

No one’s ever had to tell him twice to smoke or snort anything. Halfway through the joint his head starts to clear the fog from hangover, his mind starting to drift as he watches the desert whirring past him. He doesn’t regret it, he’s not going to start regretting it. The sex was great. It was two wanting bodies that got what they wanted. And it was an incredible release. It was something Mickey needed. A night of passion with a near-stranger. He needed it. He had his doubts about bottoming for a stranger, but the guy’s tells were clear. Always this little jolt first, just a tap, just a tiny push. Like he was asking a question, waiting for a nod before he progressed. 

But, fuck, that doesn’t stop the pain from cutting through his chest when he remembers the feel of Daren’s lips on his. Only time he’s ever really kissed anyone it was Ian. He hesitated last night. Lips against lips. No more intimate than anything else they were about to do. But he hesitated. Because the only time he’s ever kissed anyone, it’s been Ian. And when he closed his eyes and felt Daren’s beard against him, it just fuckin’ felt wrong. He was a good kisser, that wasn’t it. Mickey just always thought there should be feelings behind lips on lips. As far back as that very first kiss in the van. It was nothing. It was nothing but a swift, hard kiss. But it felt like everything inside of Mickey, every single wall guarding his heart fell down in an avalanche in that very moment. 

You don’t get to have that anymore.

Fuck. He presses his lids closed. Taking another long toke as he waits for the burning of tears to subside. Exhaling as his lids part. Taking in the bright desert sun. The rock and sand and dirt and scrub that seems to stretch on for an eternity. And a sign. A shitty wooden hand-painted sign. And a crow. Sitting on the sign.

PURGATORIO

“The fuck’s that mean?” jerking his thumb out the window.

“Uh, seriously?” she’s been good about translating important things for him, and he’s found that nearly everyone he has reason to converse with understands him just fine. He wants to learn, he wants to make a point of fitting into this culture, into the life that is now his. But sometimes it just seems like climbing a fuckin’ sheer cliff with nothing but bare hands and feet. Her eyebrows are raised beyond the top of her frames, “purgatory. Dipshit.”

“The fuck’s that?”

“Huh?”

“The. Fuck. Is. Purgatory?”

She shakes her head, something regarding amusement in her face when she tilts her glasses down on her nose. But she wipes it off quickly when she reads his expression of true curiosity, “like the bible - a place of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners. Somewhere between Heaven and Hell. Only way out is if the living pray for your soul,” she shrugs, “the locals call this purgatory ‘cause it’s like a weird geographical black hole. Don’t look familiar?”

“Huh? Why the fuck would it look familiar?”

She snickers, pulling off onto the shoulder and gesturing towards a roller in the road ahead of them, “that’d be where you were burnin’ your clothes when we found ya.”

“No it ain’t,” he denies. No way he’d forget his surroundings of that day. 

“All kinds of local theories about this place, of course an ancient burial ground is one of ‘em. ‘Cause that’s always one of ‘em. Thing is, seems to be that a lot of people get turned around here. Lot of bodies throughout the years, exposure, dehydration. People either headed for the border lookin’ for freedom. Or people comin’ from the border lookin’ for freedom,” one eyebrow is raised. She’s half leaned towards him, her left arm resting on the wheel, right one on the center counsel. Taking a deep breath and removing her sunglasses completely, “come on, get out,” she reaches over him to shove the door open.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” sliding out her side. She reaches over the bed of the truck for a bag, slinging it over her shoulder before taking off on her long fuckin’ legs to cover the dirt quickly. Fuckin’ long-legged bitch. He’s nearly jogging trying to keep up with her. The hill she takes him up is steep, rocky, and it doesn’t slow her. In moments like these, he is so fuckin’ glad she forced him to quit smoking cigarettes. Refusing to tell him where to buy any, refusing to stop any time they were out, refusing to let him take a vehicle off the complex. It wasn’t that he was a dog on a chain. He could leave whenever the fuck he wanted, she made that clear. Thing is, he didn’t really want to. The more they left the complex together, the more he saw signs of cartel violence. And the more apprehensive about being alone in this land he got. He wasn’t scared, that wasn’t it. It’s just unknown and unknown can be dangerous in so many ways it’s too hard to count. 

At least with this long-legged sarcastic, snarky bitch of a tour guide he feels this strange comfort and protective arc. She’s built him up in so many ways in the months he’s been here. Physically taking him from a street thug to a trained fighter who can get in the ring against nearly anyone and stand a chance. His was never a lack of fight, his was a lack of thought, of being able to read an opponent before the punches were even thrown. Back in Chicago he had a reputation, people in the Southside knew his family, they knew his name, they knew what happened to people who crossed them. And if they didn’t know, well he wasn’t afraid to show them. How many times had he and his brothers beat the shit out of someone for simply encroaching on their territory? By the time he got out of juvie for the second time they’d lost footing. It was no longer a white man’s game. And it was no longer a game he wanted to play. Fuck, that fuckin’ face full of hope telling him to take some classes down at Malcom X. Those gorgeous green eyes watching him intently in the dugout. The heat of summer encasing them in something that seemed so unreal and yet so palpable. That fucker kissed his shoulder that night. Mickey nearly donkey kicked his ginger ass for it. If he hadn’t felt so weak from the contact, he would have.

Emotionally, he hates to say it, but she’s gotten to him there too. Could be the copious amounts of tequila they’ve shared. Or the incredible weed. Could be the kindred spirit inside her. But he feels like he can say just about anything to her. And she won’t judge. Nothing can shock her, she’s been through enough shit that she’d never pity him for his. She’s got nobody but herself, and a half-brother that she may give half a shit about, but just barely. And that makes another thing she has in common with Mickey. Alone in a fucking world full of people.

She finally stops at the apex of the hill. Sweeping her hand out across the air in front of them, “see? No beginning. No end. It all swirls together into one endless mass of land and sky. Even where they meet, it’s unclear. Something about the way the sun glares this time of day. At dusk it seems to clear. Separate. And then the sun falling in the sky paints it like it’s a burning ball of gases meeting another burning ball of gases. At night, it’s all black. Even with the stars in the sky. They don’t mean anything here,” her face falls, for a reason Mickey can’t decipher, barely whispering, “nothing does,” bending down to pick up a rock. When she straightens back out and huffs it out into the desert around them, he loses sight of it as soon as the blue of the sky is no longer behind it. 

“Optical illusions, ancient burial grounds, curses, religious bullshit aside. The place is fuckin’ trippy,” she shrugs as she starts down the far side of the hill. 

“The fuck we goin’ now?”

“You’ll see.”

“I’ll see,” he grunts, “sure, why not?”

“‘Cause I’ll leave your pretty little ass out here to decide for yourself if it’s curses or religion.”

“Fuck it,” as he starts the rocky descent behind her.

They walk maybe ten minutes before coming to a dip in the landscape. A shack with a swirl of smoke exiting the crooked brick chimney, an outhouse, and a tree full of crows and shoes. Mickey stops dead in his tracks as he takes in the sight of the black birds sitting in a tree, maybe the only tree in a ten mile radius, “fuck,” he hears himself whisper. 

“The myth, the magic, the mystery,” she whispers in a half-teasing manner with an elbow to his side before she calls out gently, “Charlie, my love, you decent?”

“Valentine?” a shaky old voice responds from somewhere inside the wooden walls.

“Yah Charlie, it’s me.”

The door swings open. Revealing an old man, leaning on a cane with one hand, a black eye patch covering his left eye. His hair is long, scraggly and thin. His frame is even more crumpled than the wrinkled old tissue paper lady at the complex. He’s wearing a brown shirt and tattered blue jeans. Bare foot. A necklace of what looks like bones resting on his chest. 

“Did you find her Valentine? Did you find her?”

“No, but tomorrow is another day.”

“Better find her before the heat of the day sets in Valentine. She won’t last another day out there.”

“I know,” she stops walking when she’s within reach of him, her hand coming down gently on top of his on the cane, “I know Charlie. I brought you some things. You hungry?”

“No, no. We need to go. We need to find her Valentine. She won’t last…”

“I know, my love. But we need to eat, remember? We can’t find her if we don’t keep our strength up, remember?”

“Yes. Of course,” he steps aside, letting her pass him in the doorway.

Mickey’s stuck. He’s stuck in the sand at his feet, watching the crows in the tree. Just sitting there. Every single one of them calm, quiet, and unperturbed by the presence of humans. He stands there for so long that the door of the shack closes. Lou and the old man on the other side of it. He stands there and stares. Visions of his dreams coming into focus. All the dreams, all the months of dreams. They left him at the border. The last time he’d dreamt of crows was the night under the railroad bridge. With Ian at his back, Ian’s thoughts circling the air between them. Circling the air and finding Mickey’s ears with a wicked whisper reminding him, ‘he can’t come with you’. Reminding him with every single breath. ‘He can’t come with you. He has a life. He has a life without you. He belongs in Chicago. He has a life there. Not like you. Not like you and the things you’ve become.’ When his eyes opened that morning, blinking away sleep, letting himself fully feel the body of the man behind him. The man who’s face was buried in his neck, breathing against his flesh. The man who’s body had always felt like it belonged there. Like it was safe and reassuring against his back. Even when it wasn’t. Even those times it wasn’t safe. But that wasn’t him. That was the disease. 

Fuck. His fingers meet his eyes, grinding until all he can see are spots. Not that face, not those eyes, not that face. Not those words. The words exiting his mouth, becoming solid. Becoming a solid brick wall in the space between them. ‘I can’t. This isn’t me anymore.’

But Mickey knew that. And he couldn’t argue it. He knew that.

Fuck. Deep breath. Open eyes. When he takes a step the crows rise as one. Every single one of them taking flight. Leaving the tree and soaring into the open desert sky. 

“Fuck,” his voice sounds thick. He hates that. He can hear them inside the structure. Their voices. Not their words. 

It’s move. Move or sink. Fall into the quicksand of regrets from a life passed. Suffocate in all the should-haves. 

“Fuck,” clear now. Taking a step. Taking two steps. Three. Four. And pushing the door open quietly. Stepping in unnoticed by the old man. Lou nods at him, not breaking her focus from the pot she’s stirring over a wood-fired stove. 

The old man is shaking a cup full of something solid. Clicking together, clanging against the metal edges of the cup. Suddenly he tosses the contents onto the table top. Bird bones. His fingers spread in the air, extending over the bones. His eye closed as he starts humming.

What the fuck? Mickey feels himself taking a step back. Fuck, maybe the weed was laced. 

The humming stops and the old man turns his head. Eye slowly opening, locking onto Mickey’s face. He feels himself take another step back. The eye is gray like an Autumn storm cloud. Watery and foggy. Vision cutting through Mickey’s soul like a hot knife through butter, “a baby crow. Intentionally rejected by his parents. Flightless and wobbling. Blue-eyed. Black-winged. Marked for death,” his head cocks to the side, as if listening to the cawing of the crows outside the structure, “or marked for survival. His choice,” the old man shrugs, turning back to his bones on the table and falling silent.

Mickey’s mouth has gone dry. His legs have turned to stone. This is a fucking dream. It’s all just a fucking dream. It has to be. Maybe he’s still on the border. Maybe he’s still in Ian’s embrace. Maybe he’s still in the grass by the railroad bridge. Maybe he never left. And maybe he still has time to fight it, to beg, to blurt it all out, tell him how he feels. Like he can’t do this. He can’t breathe, his heart won’t beat, his head won’t clear unless Ian comes with him. He needs Ian to come with him. He needs him. 

“What do the bones say old man?” Lou’s familiar voice barges in on his thoughts, pulling him back to this reality. This weird, fucked up reality. 

The old man suddenly grows angry. His hands slamming down fisted on the table, then quickly jerking across the bones, swiping them to the floor, “nothing. They say nothing! They say nothing about her!”

She appears next to the old man like there was never a distance between them to begin with, her hands coming down gently but firmly on his, “Charlie boy, it’s okay. She’s out there. Okay? And we’ll find her, in one piece, safe and sound. We’ll find her before nightfall. First, we eat. Then you rest, okay? We’ll have her back to you by nightfall.”

Calming against her touch, at the sound of her words, “okay Valentine. Okay.”

————

He stops when she does. Sitting heavily on the hill they stood on earlier. He lowers himself next to her. He can’t sort through the shit in his head. As he watches her pushing a pebble around in the sand, he realizes she can’t either. Waiting, they’ll speak eventually. Watching the sun falling in the desert sky. Becoming a buzzing glow of colors splashing upwards and sideways into the sky. Flouresent and bright. Brilliant with shades like Mickey’s never seen before in nature. She’s right. What she said earlier. It all becomes one single thing once again. The desert and sky. Dancing with a spectacular light show around them. 

“I don’t give a shit if I’m lying to the old man. He doesn’t need to be reminded that his daughter is long dead.”

“What happened to her?”

She waves her hand over the darkened horizon line, “Purgatory,” with a sigh she removes the joint from behind her ear, lighting it. He watches her face in the glow of the lighter, pinched with things she probably won’t voice, “Charlie’s half nuts. Probably all nuts. But he saved my life, so I can’t just ignore his existence out here.”

“How’d you end up here?” 

“Ran away. Simple as that.”

“I doubt it was that simple,” nudging her leg with his.

He feels her gaze though he can’t see it in the darkness that’s descended around them, “well, when I was eight my mom died right in front of my face. January night on the streets of Detroit. Didn’t take long really. Not as long as it felt. I ended up in the system until my shit father came for me when I was twelve. I was seventeen on the streets of LA when I finally just ran. As far as I could. I don’t know how long I was in Mexico before I got lost in Purgatory. Don’t know how long I was in Purgatory before Charlie found me. Nursed me back to health. Brought me to Rocky. She ain’t bad. Taught me a lot of shit,” her exhale meets Mickey’s fingers as she hands the joint to him, “I figure I’ll end up bein’ just like that old man someday, so I should probably keep him fed and clothed. He’ll wander off some night, another lost soul in Purgatory. But maybe he’ll find his daughter out there,” her elbow meets his side gently, “don’t worry about what he said back there. He’s just nuts.”

“He might be nuts, but he’s mostly right,” sighing his herb-infused exhale into the night air, “why’s he call you Valentine?”

“Fuck, you really are a shitty snoop. Valentine’s my middle name,” she snickers.

“You fuckin’ serious?”

“Yeah, ain’t it fitting? Valentine the priest who married young couples when marriage was prohibited. Beaten, stoned, and beheaded for love. And now we celebrate him with a day of overpriced flowers, chocolates, cards, and dinners. The patron saint of lovers,” she tosses another rock, this time he hears it hit bottom, “alright. Let’s fuckin’ go before Purgatory swallows us whole. And we start talkin’ about more shit that don’t make sense. Like love. And crows. And crazy old men alone in the desert.”

“And shoes tied together hanging out of a tree.”

“Oh those. Those make sense. Those are the soles of the lost souls.”

“You fuckin’ serious?”

“Yeah. Now let’s fuck off before our shoes are hangin’ in that tree gettin’ shit on by crows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoe tree outside Amboy, anyone?
> 
> I'm not actually trying to incorporate any type of magic in here. I do think that soulmates are connected on a level that is deeper than just flesh and blood things. I also think nature has a way of showing us signs if we're willing to see them.
> 
> Their timeframe has not matched up yet. All in good time...


	11. Constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian alone in the desert.

Constellations 

 

He’s going to take a rest. Just a short rest. That’s all. Lying back in the hard packed dirt. Watching the cloudless blue sky stretching on for an eternity. The heat. The heat burning his bare skin. He should have put sunscreen on. 

This is just a rest. He hasn’t seen the sign in hours. He hasn’t seen any sign of anything. Life. The road. The car. All he can see is an endless blur of desert and sky. And he’s not certain where one ends and the other begins. 

It’s just a rest. His eyes close to block out the blinding sun. At least the fluttering in his chest has subsided. At least he’s not dying to tear his skin off. Calm. He feels calm. And tired. Fuck, he feels tired.

His eyes close. Drifting back in his mind, once again, to their last night together. The railroad bridge. He should have done it right. He should have taken his time and undressed Mickey completely. He should have adored his beautiful flesh in the glow of the moon and stars. Like that night in the dugout. The way the dim glow of the night around them lit him up like he was glowing from within. Like that light was gently emitting from his pores. Ian had watched, had mapped out the freckles on his left shoulder. Every single freckle. Counting every single freckle, reaching out to trace over them. The way Mickey twisted away from his touch, of course he did. He was always forcing things to remain just fucking then. No touching, no kissing, no adoring. But what he couldn’t see when Ian was behind him, was just how much he adored that constellation of freckles. And when he leaned down to kiss it, to tenderly lay his lips against it, Mickey drew in a deep breath. He was expecting a tongue-lashing, or a shove, or something; anything to make it clear they were just fucking. But he didn’t say a word. 

Fuck, he should have laid Mickey out on that blanket and kissed every single inch of him. Has he ever done that? Has he ever fully appreciated his warm skin? His every line, every freckle, every scar. The scars he was the source of. He always just skipped over them on his route to final destination. It was what Mickey wanted. Just to be fucked. Bent over and fucked. The times they were face to face were rushed and Ian was standing and Mickey’s eyes were plastered shut. Mickey wouldn’t even let Ian touch his dick for so fucking long. Like he was insecure about it or something, always keeping it shielded with his own hands or an article of clothing. Ian couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Mickey would be insecure about anything. Fuck, he was gorgeous. He learned that quickly the first night he slept at the Milkovich house. And then that morning, that fucking morning. Not going there, not right now.

It wasn’t until after he came back. After Mickey came for him. That he finally let his guard down every single time. And even then, fuck, even then it was so frenzied. They never had the time or the space to themselves. To slow down and do it right. It never once felt wrong. They grooved together, like they were jigsaw pieces, they just fit. The animalistic passion, the burning, aching, smoldering passion that stifled anything resembling making love. Two horny teenage boys, of course it was like fire. Burning hot and quick. 

And then he was loving Mickey through the mania, and he knew sometimes he was too much too quickly. And he knew sometimes he was hurting him, but Mickey never said a fucking word. Pounded into the mattress and gasping for air became the norm. And Mickey never said a fucking word. It wasn’t until later, until much later, when the mania started to clear that Ian realized it, in memories that rose like flashes of lightening and rolls of thunder. The little things, the way his fists would clench as Ian grasped his wrists, the way his entire body was always so taut, ready to snap, the way sometimes those gasps sounded like pain. But he never said a fucking word. Ian would have stopped if he had said something, if he just fucking said something. Fuck.

There was nothing enjoyable about it. It was a compulsion. It was something that could never be sated. Not by Mickey. Not by random strangers. Not by anyone. Anywhere. Any time. It wasn’t a physical yearning for touching and kissing and holding. It wasn’t a physical desire to be held or grasped by those hands that Ian loved so much. It wasn’t about him. It was about a biological urge that completely and hopelessly hijacked his brain. And it didn’t matter how, when, where, or with whom the action took place; nothing could satisfy the craving.

Fuck, he never told Mickey that. Mickey must have thought he wasn’t enough. He must have blamed himself too. 

He sits suddenly. His stomach rising to his throat. Wondering why the fuck he kept coming back. Why did he keep coming back? Fuck. ‘You can’t fix me, I’m not broken’. Jesus, fuck. Mickey was broken. Mickey was broken. And Ian is the one that broke him.

Standing quickly. Dizzy, frantically scanning the horizon that has turned to grey of dusk, for something. Anything. The crow. Where is the crow?

“Mickey,” he hears himself whisper. His voice sounds weak and terrified, “Mickey, I tried. I tried. Please, I can’t do this alone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything. I need you. I can’t do this alone. Where are you?”

He tilts his head back, letting tears fall from the corners of his eyes, blurring the stars twinkling in the night. Blurring until he blinks. Blurring until the stars have become the freckles. And the freckles have become the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to portray the bipolar references and actions as close to real as possible. One of the things that seems to be common is it's only once the person has been stable and medicated for a period of time that shame and embarrassment of the actions taken while manic start to rise. And when it comes to hyper-sexuality, it's usually the relationship breaker which is no surprise.


	12. Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey dealing with anxiety.

Safe Place

 

“No, don’t tap,” she instructs, her mouth close to his ear, “not yet,” releasing the choke hold she has on him slightly. Just enough to lift the feeling that the world is closing in on him, “breathe. Take a moment to think this through. Use your head. Not your anger. You can get out of this. You can,” but when she tightens her hold again he feels panic budding in his chest. 

Fuck, he can’t seem to shake that weird feeling, the pins and needles in his chest, the feeling like ants are crawling on the tips of his fingers. Like he’s crawling with a desire for escape. Escape from what? Fuck, it’s been months since he’s felt like he had to look over his shoulder. Maybe he’s getting too comfortable around here, maybe he should be more aware of his surroundings, maybe that’s it. 

Or maybe it’s just the rising. Rising of all the things he’s buried throughout the years, coming to surface, crashing though his memories.

The distant sound of his father’s voice in his ear. He had sat at the kitchen table. Watching his french toast grow cold. The syrup grow gelatinous. Listening as his father and uncle wrapped his mother’s lifeless body in a blanket. Carrying her broken body out the back door. He sat there in his own puddle of piss. Unmoving. Barely breathing. When the door opened again with a screech he held his breath. His father’s hand clamping the back of his neck. Dragging him to his feet. Pushing his face against the stove where his mother’s blood, hair and brain matter are splattered. 

‘If this is what happens to fag lovers,’ his growl making every part of Mickey’s little body tremble with fear, ‘what do you think happens to faggots?’ swiping his feet out from under him. Slamming him against the blood soaked linoleum, his heel coming down hard on Mickey’s jaw, grinding his face into his mother’s last moments of life, ‘goddamned Mama’s boy. Clean it up before your sister gets home,’ his parting shot a stomp to Mickey’s left hand. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” her voice filtering into his memory, the slight urgency to it jolting him back to the Mexican heat and the feel of her body against his back, “hey pretty boy, the fuck you go? You get your ass back here. Right now. You’re in a safe place. You’re right here, in a safe place. Breathe with me pretty boy. No one can hurt you here, okay? This is safe.”

“Fuck,” he finally stutters. Feeling returning to his limbs. Her arms around him, hands clasped in hers at his chest. He feels suddenly as though he’s going to jump out of his own skin. Shoving back into her to dislodge her. She lets him go. Sitting up he runs a shaking hand through his sweat slicked hair, “fuck. Don’t know what the fuck that was,” he admits. His stomach feels queasy, mouth dry. His vision keeps jumping. Closing his eyes as his fingers meet his lids. 

After a beat of silence she tells him, “that, love, was a panic attack.”

“No it fuckin’ wasn’t,” denying. Catching the buzzing in his ears. 

“You need a safe place.”

“The fuck’s that mean?” his defense mechanisms clearly in place.

“In your head. You need to find a safe place. When’s the last time you felt that? Completely and utterly safe?”

“Never,” he chokes on it but in his mind he’s waking in Ian’s arms. After he came out. His dad locked up again. The man he loves pressed so close to his back that there’s no room for air, their fingers locked together at his chest, “fuck,” further than that. His mother. Her eyes, her voice, ‘good morning sleepy face’. But they’re both lost to him. Those places can’t be safe. Not anymore.

“Trust me?” her voice cuts into his fog again.

“Yeah,” he chokes. Honestly and immediately.

“I’m not going to touch you right now. But you need to look at me. Take your time,” her voice has taken a gentle edge that’s never been directed at him before.

Grinding the heal of his hands against his closed eyes until sparks fly, hiding the fading image of his dead mother. He takes a deep breath, letting oxygen flow back into his body. 

Opening his eyes slowly to the blinding sun glaring off the window of the main house across from them. Blinking hard at the threat of tears. An attempt at another deep breath is caught in his chest and without his permission his head turns. Gaze landing on her face. Open and supportive. 

“This. Right here,” her hands motioning in the air between them, “this is a safe place Mick,” her right hand landing on her chest overtop her heart, “this is a safe place,” left hand hovering palm up in the air between them. It takes him a moment but he lays his down in hers. She folds her long graceful fingers around his palm, “this is a safe place. For you. Always.”

————

He lies back on his cot. Watching the ceiling. Feeling the breeze cooling back as it flows through the open window. He’s getting used to the heat. Sort of. He pretends he’s getting used to the heat. But he’s become certain there is no way to get used to it. To the blinding sun every single day. It’s like the Chicago winters when the snow is fresh and the sun is glaring off the surface of it. But it’s every single moment of every single day. 

Brave enough to let his thoughts wander when his eyes close. He’s in a good place right now. He’s learning how to survive in the world. He’s making serious cash. The Cody boys have been trustworthy enough to get mail to Yevgeny. No way to trace it back to him, here in Mexico. If it was traced back to California, it wouldn’t matter. They’ve got no dirt on him, even if anyone did come sniffing around. They’d gain nothing by turning him in. They’re living their lives outside the law, which makes them trustworthy as far as Mickey is concerned. They know the game. And clearly they know how to fucking play it. As far as they’re concerned he’s just a guy who rides along with their supplier. 

Fucking Daren will never be anything more than just fucking. But it’s reliable. It’s enjoyable. They’re enough removed from each other’s worlds that they’d never stand a chance of wanting more than just a warm body. That is absolutely fine with Mickey. It’s a good way to spend a weekend every now and again. Honestly, the physical demands of training leave him too fucking tired to even think about sex most nights. 

And then there’s the fights. Leaving him bruised and bloodied. But in exactly a way that Mickey can get on board with. It was his choice to step in the ring. It was his choice. It wasn’t his father’s choice. It wasn’t some prick behind bars. It was his choice to step into that ring and channel his anger, his deep seated anger that he never could find a satisfying outlet for previously, his choice. 

This no permanent future. But it doesn’t fucking matter. Mickey can’t live for the future. Not now. Not ever. The one and only time he ever had high hopes for the future, a real future, something resembling happiness; fuck. Maybe letting his mind wander is still not safe. It always finds it’s way back to that fucking ginger fuckhead. The way it felt when he fuckin’ smiled at him. Fuck.

His fingers rise, grinding into his eyes hard. Until the darkness becomes spots. Swirling in his lids. 

“Why the fuck you still awake?” her voice cuts through the regrets starting to bubble up in his chest again. Again. They’ll never fucking stop. At least he knew how love felt. At least he wasn’t alone then, for the first time since his mother died he wasn’t alone.

“Fuck, I don’ know.”

“You want me to take your spot tomorrow?”

“Fuck would I want that for?”

Listening as she rolls to face him through the darkness of, what he supposes, has become a home in that last few months, “you’re off pretty boy. Your headspace. It’s a head game. I don’t want you to get lost out there.”

“You startin’ to care about me Valentine?”

“Fuck off,” she grunts, a shoe crashes against the wall near his head, “‘spose I should go see the old man tomorrow.”

He lifts the boot off his mattress by his shoulder, holding it out in front of his face for a moment. Wondering truly how many miles these treads have seen. And in those miles, how many of them were harsh and alone? His head turns to find her galaxy-eyed gaze through the night.

“I ain’t wired for love, pretty boy. You may have lost it, but that doesn’t mean it needs to die,” she sits quickly, “now give me my boot back,” she slides the other one on as he sets it on the floor in front of her. 

Fuckin’ weird woman. Listening as the door slams shut behind her. 

Is this what living in the desert does to a person? Years of brilliant sunshine. Dry air. Quiet. It’s so fucking quiet. It never changes. It’s like time stands fuckin’ still here. There are no seasons to mark the years. Blurring together just like the eternal sand and sky on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely know that there are weird ways in which a person can feel their soulmate's anxiety even as far away as a different continent. 
> 
> Are their timelines starting to match up?


	13. A Chorus of Crows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Ian's journey.

A Chorus of Crows

 

Dusk settling around him. Blanketing the desert floor. He’s bone tired. He’s lost count of how long he’s been out here. He’s lost count of how many dusks he’s watched descend. Of how many times he called out that name. That name that lives on every single surface of his body. That name that is carried through his bloodstream. That name that is inhaled and exhaled with every single breath. 

“Mickey,” it sounds weak. So weak now. Barely a whisper. As he sinks to his butt on the hard packed dirt at the base of a hill he’s too tired to climb. If he could climb that hill, if he could get up there before dark, he could see. He could see his surroundings. He could find a structure, or a landmark. Anything to prove he’s not lost out here for eternity.

But that hill may as well be a mountain. A shiver racks through his body, hugging his knees tight to his chest. The heat of the sun leaving his flesh. Darkness and cold falling around him. 

“Mickey,” it exits his mouth once more. 

Regrets and doubts churning through his system all day. A never-ending reel of things he should have done. He should have crossed that border before, before when had Mickey’s hand in his. He should have stayed on his meds after Monica’s funeral. He should have made a clean break with Trevor instead of trying to force something that would never exist. He should have made his peace with Fiona, he shouldn’t have run off on her bail. He should have told Lip, Lip would have talked him out of this. 

He should never have stood on that porch. He shouldn’t have gone there when he was fifteen. Searching for the one place, the one and only place he’s ever felt comfort. The one place he’s ever felt whole. The one place he’s ever felt sane. He never would have known then, he never would have known how it felt to be whole. And this missing piece, this gaping wound in his soul, it wouldn’t exist. And he wouldn’t have run. He wouldn’t have left.

Just to lie here alone. Alone in the desert night creeping in around him. Alone. Afraid. 

Dying.

Fuck, his head falls back, eyes closing as he chokes on fears. Fear of death. Fear of never having lived at all. What are their lives without him? His siblings, they’ll keep going, the way Gallaghers always do. Like he was never there to begin with. Monica trained them for that, she groomed them to never rely on anyone. To never fully love anyone because the moment they did, that person would disappear. 

Everyone but Mickey. Mickey never disappeared. 

But where is he now? Fuck, what if he’s dead? What if Ian came all this way, what if Ian dies here, and Mickey is already dead? 

He can’t stop shivering. Teeth chattering. Exhaustion. Delusions. This isn’t new. 

“Don’t do this.”

“What?” his eyes open. Was that real? 

“Don’t do this.”

“Mickey?” he scrambles to his feet, eyes darting around with new found energy. Maybe a dying man’s final burst, “Mickey? Where are you?”

“Don’t do this.”

It’s clear. It’s so clear. It has to be real. He starts running. He can feel his feet moving. Carrying him through the darkness. As though he’s floating. It’s Mickey. Mickey is here. He’s here. He’s here. It’s confirmed by the thudding of Ian’s heart against his chest. By the blood rushing in his ears. By the fog in his eyes, blurring everything around him but that one centered being. That one thing. That one thing that he could always focus on. 

It crashes down. Everything around him crashes down. His knees hit the desert rocks, palms scraping against a scrub brush. Against a hundred of them, against a million rocks as he slides. Falling, rolling, crashing down a slope. Every surface of skin being bruised, battered off nature’s cruel joke. Nature and his disease addled brain. What was he expecting? Was he truly expecting to cross that border and just find his soulmate wandering lost through the desert? Living happily in a hut by the beach? Working for a cartel running drugs? What was he expecting? 

Screaming at him now. What was he expecting? With every bump, with every jarring crash of his body against the landscape. What was he expecting? 

A choked cry parts his lips as he stops moving. Finally stops falling. Stops tumbling. Another choked cry. And another. Ragged breath. Pain rising and burning through every single inch of him. Coming out of his throat, tearing from his soul. Another cry. And another. 

And another. So many they sound like more than one person. So many they sound like a chorus of cries. So many they sound like a chorus of crows. Crows. 

His mouth is shut. His mouth has been shut. It’s closed. He can feel his lips pressed firmly together. He can taste the metal of blood, and the grit of dirt in his mouth. But his lips are closed. And still the noise is rising around him. Echoing around him in the darkness. The darkness that is settling in his bones.

They’re circling. Soaring through the air above him. Like shadows in the darkest corners of his brain. He sees his hand rising. Reaching out in front of him. For what? Reaching for what? The stars? The moon? The birds? The light? The light appearing in the night. A beam of bright light. His fingers are red with blood. And brown with dirt. And he can see it now. He can see it in that light. And he keeps reaching.


	14. A Pool In The Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lou checking in on Charlie.

A Pool In The Forest

 

“Charlie boy, you decent?” she calls out, like she always does as the crows sit in the shoe tree watching her every move. All she remembers from that morning are the crows and the shoes. Lying under that tree. Dehydrated and broken to bits. 

“Charlie boy?” she calls again when she gets no response. Maybe the old man’s in the shitter. Or maybe today’s the day. 

Taking a deep breath to center herself, closing her eyes for a moment, if she opens that door and he’s dead it’s just a dead old man. That’s all it is. 

She nearly startles out of her skin when it opens. Eyes flicking over the old man’s face. He’s rumpled, more so than usual. Tension in the set of his mouth. His eyes are distant. As though he’s seeing into a different life.

“Hey Charlie,” she calms her voice. Her hand reaching between them, covering the distance to lay over top of his on his cane. 

The feel of her flesh sparks him to life, words spilling out like coded prophecies, “a pool in the forest. Shaded by the green leaves of Spring trees. Reflections off the surface of spreading green canopy. Sparked by sunshine. Each leaf marked by dew.”

“Charlie,” she interrupts, “I love your poetry my love, but…”

“Coals. Charred black coals. Where once there was fire. There was nothing but fire. Extinguished. Left cold and black. Lone black coals.”

“That was lovely Charlie. Shall we eat?”

“I found him by the way of the crows. This morning,” he blinks and the poetry is gone. It’s fallen away from his eye in a tear and trickled into the folds of his wrinkled cheek.

She reaches out to dry it with her fingertip, “who did you find Charlie?”

Normally the answer is God. Or Satan. This time he blinks and his eye is clear, “a boy. A boy lost in Purgatory. I found him.”

“What?”

“I was looking for my Anna. Did you find my Anna yet Valentine? Are you here because you found her?”

“No,” rushing past him now into the shack. He seems so certain, he seems so clear, he seems, “Jesus Christ,” she drops to her knees next to a lifeless form bundled in blankets on the floor in front of the wood stove, “when did you find him Charlie?”

“The crows. By way of the crows this morning Valentine. Do you think she’s still out there? We have to find her by nightfall.”

“I know. I know,” her breath shakes as her fingers reach out, pressing into the thin skin of the young man’s neck, finding a weak pulse. A sigh parts her lips, scanning over a sunburned face, beaten by nature, wind, and maybe more. She sits back on her heals near his body, at least Charlie fed the fire. At least the warmth from the stove is spilling out against his back. The nights are getting chilly. The days, the days are always hot. But the nights, they’re getting brutal to be out alone with no warm layers. 

Studying his face for a long moment she finds something familiar in his jawline. Without giving it permission to do so, her pointer finger traces the sharp line from his ear towards his chin. At the contact his eyes flicker open. Just briefly. Just long enough to see the green of a pool on a forest floor. 

Jesus Charlie’s gotten in her head in the last few years. The ramblings of an old crazy man, “you’re safe,” she assures the barely conscious man, “just rest,” watching her fingers slide through his hair near his temple. Black. Dyed black. At the very root a hint of fire. 

“Fuck,” she jolts back as though she’s been burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, their timelines are starting to meet. 
> 
> Crickets since chapter one... Mostly I figure if only one person makes it to the end of a fiction with me, then I'm happy to have posted it. But I'm starting to feel alone here, if you don't have boo to say about it, that' fine, just let me know if you're still in. 
> 
> I've got some stuff in later chapters that are starting to take me on some surprising little twists, I'm kind of excited about it, so I'll finish the story regardless just want to know if I should keep posting!


	15. A Mouth Full Of Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey trying to sort out the source of his sudden rising anxiety.

A Mouth Full Of Ash

 

The salty ocean air circling through the open room. Grasping sheer white curtains, swaying in the swirls of wind. He hears a groan part his lips. Pounding in his head. Blinking sleep away as an awareness of his semi-familiar surroundings sets in. Fuck, his head hurts like a mother-fucker. He feels like he got hit by a fucking train last night. Fuck, he did get hit by a fucking train last night.

She was right. His headspace was too far off. He shouldn’t have gotten in the ring. He somehow managed to make it to the final round. And took the beating of his life for it.

Every single ache, dull and sharp, starting to rise from every single part of his body, “fuck,” through gritted teeth.

She wasn’t there last night. She went to see the old man and never came back. Rocky insisted she was fine, that Martin would go for her while they were at the fights. Well, something like that. Mickey was still having a hard time grasping the language to the extent of understanding the old woman word-for-word. Doesn’t help that she talks so fucking fast.

“Fuck,” he groans again as even more pain radiates through his body when his hand rises to scrub his face. 

If he could find the reason. If he could pinpoint the driving force behind his sudden anxiety, the panic that’s been crashing through his system for the last few days. Like something is off. Something is seriously off and he can’t figure it out. Not that he has any way to figure it out. He can’t just pick up the phone and call. Call Svetlana and make sure Yevgeny is okay. Call Mandy and make sure she’s okay. Fiona, check on Ian. Fuck. Ian. It’s always Ian. Ian is the only reason Mickey ever feels this fucking raw. But he can’t fucking do that. He couldn’t get the asshole to pick up his phone while he was behind bars. So why would he answer now? Even if Mickey could get through to him, would he tell him if he was off? Would he tell him if something was seriously wrong? Knowing that Mickey would risk it all, would leave this life and this freedom in a fucking heartbeat if Ian needed help. No, he wouldn’t tell him. But even if he lied, if all Mickey heard was his voice saying, ‘yeah Mick, I’m fine’, he’d know. He would know.

“Fuck,” grinding into his lids through the pain of black eyes. Fuck, fuck. Fuck, “Jesus fuck,” he grunts, flopping onto his back and opening his eyes. It’s broad fucking daylight. 

“Mikhailo. So good to see your eyes. Celestial sapphire eyes.”

Fuck. This guy. Jesus fuck.

“Here,” his soft hands extending with a water glass and a few pills, “you must be feeling sore, hmm?” lying on his belly beside Mickey on the big soft overly pillowed and blanketed bed. His finger reaches out to trace through Mickey’s hair, “lovely, angelic, ocean-eyed. A rare beauty. A sapphire Mikhailo. The stone of wisdom and royalty. Power and strength.”

Fuck. This fucking guy? No one else? Truly, no one else could outbid this nitwit? Fucking artists, poets, writers, painters. Fuck them all. They’re so fucking weird. Just blurting out weird fucking shit all the time. Fuck. 

Guy hasn’t tried to touch him or anything. Well, not really, no more than strange face caressing. This is the third time he’s bid him. He just keeps wanting to paint him. Fuck. Mickey told him he couldn’t have his face out there, and they guy said it wasn’t his face he wanted to share with the world. Fuckin’ weirdo. 

Closing his eyes, he’ll lay here and wait for the drugs to kick in. Then he’ll get up and leave a piss. See what this fuckin’ guy has set up for food. He won’t complain about the food. Fuck, it’s like a fuckin’ banquet all the time at this guy’s house. And the house. On the beach. Open aired, salty, and sun-kissed every inch of it. The porch leads directly into the sand. The waves crashing the shore like a lullaby. He could certainly sleep in this ridiculous bed without a fuckin’ care in the world. Yeah, if this fuckin’ weirdo wasn’t looking at him like he wanted to devour him.

Licking his lips when Mickey’s eyes open, laying a finger down on his chin, “so much tension in your body,” he whispers, “may I?”

“May you what?”

“May I relieve your tension?”

“The fuck’s that mean?” 

“To massage a celestial being is to touch Heaven itself Mikhailo. I love to touch heaven.”

His mouth drops open to tell the guy to fuck off, but the guy puts his index finger against his lips, “I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want to be touched. This I promise. You tell me to stop, I stop. I want to knead your muscles, your tight incredible muscles. I want to press my fingertips into your flesh, your warm pale luminescent flesh. I want to…”

“Will you shut the fuck up if I let you?”

“Oh, silence,” he whispers, “I love silence.”

Stupid fuck loves everything apparently. Fuckever, “have at it.”

————

Wow. Massage is right. Three fucking days of it. He’s never felt this relaxed. Like he’s floating though life. Hovering over the surface of that insanely exorbitant bed. Guy must have bid a ridiculous amount of money for three days. It didn’t take long before the annoying fuck was reciting poetry about the lines of Mickey’s flesh, and the sapphires in his eyes but fuck if he could hear it anyway. 

A smirk rises on her face when he tosses his bag down on his cot, “mmm, lavender and jasmine. You look like you’ve been fucked into the next century love. How was it?”

His middle finger responds for him. 

“That good, huh? Eduardo. He’s weird as fuck, but he’s a good lay.”

“Didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Fuck.”

The response he expects is something sarcastic or crude. But there’s nothing. When he turns his head to look at her, she looks like she’s struck with some kind of weird awe before she wipes it off with a cocky wink, “musta done somethin’. Maybe some fingering,” eyebrow arced up wickedly, “or a little,” making jerking off motions with her hand as her toes extend to rub against his butt.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, lacking his usual bite. She’s right. But he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

“Couldn’t fuck ‘cause he probably likes to bottom, huh? Couldn’t agree on who got to take it? That it?”

“Where the fuck were you?” turning the questions her way.

She sighs, leaning back on her cot. Hands behind her head, one leg folded, the other stretched across the floorspace, “Charlie was havin’ a bad one. Sorry ‘bout that. But, hey, I hear you got your ass absolutely kicked,” her gaze shifts to land on him.

“Whatever bitch. Wanna hear you were right? I should have sat this week out?”

“No. I don’t need reassurance I’m right. I’m always right, never doubted that.”

“Fuck, you’re annoying.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Mid-season, it’ll get more intense, pots’ll get higher.”

“I know that. I’ve been here a year.”

“Just sayin’. Can’t keep your head in the game…”

“Jesus, fuck. You want to go a round or what?”

The galaxy on her blue irises is spinning soft and slow. He’s not sure what that means as she scans him over. Getting to her feet, “fuck it. Live round. Gloves. Rocky’ll have a fuckin’ fit if we go bare-knuckle mid-season in training. Head-gear,” she stops close to him, taking his chin in her hand to tilt his face into the light, “maybe no face shots. Probably should let that shit heal a little, huh?”

“Fuck off. I’m fine.”

Cocky shrug, “you asked for it pretty boy.”

————

‘He’ll get his shit straight. He’ll bring the kid back.’ 

Waving a white flag in the air between them. Because Mickey was ready, he was ready for anything, ready to lose everything to believe in that statement. He had felt it. That morning when he put his hand down on Ian’s chest. He felt it spreading from Ian to his own body. That anxious, nervous fluttering. That electric current running through his veins. He felt it. He felt it in the physical contact and saw it in those eyes. 

‘You’re sick Ian. You need help.’ 

Admitting his own failure. His own misguidance, thinking he could keep Ian afloat. Thinking he could give up his heart and his soul in exchange for stopping the illness. He didn’t believe Fiona. He refused to believe her. Because he knew Ian. He knew him inside and out. He knew every single expression on his face, every single thought in his head. He knew him. 

And he also knew the current running under his skin was too fast and too hard. He knew he couldn’t stop it. He knew he couldn’t stop it as soon as his own body started betraying him. Unable to keep up with Ian’s energy. Unable to fulfill his sexual desires. Unable to follow his line of thought. Unable to keep that crazed look from rising to his eyes. Those eyes that Mickey loved looking into, loved being able to see his future right there on those green irises. Right there, like shooting stars. But that morning, those weren’t Ian’s eyes. The night before, those weren’t Ian’s eyes. That wasn’t Ian. It wasn’t. It never could be. 

‘You’re sick Ian. You need help.’

And I can’t do it. I can’t help you. I never could. 

————

“Welcome back,” slapping his chest as she shifts away from his line of sight. 

The sickening scent of smelling salts in his nostrils. Pounding back in his skull, like it had never left in the first place. That fucking nagging in his stomach, like something is irreversibly wrong, “what the fuck?”

“You don’t want to bench yourself. Fine. That’s fine. But I ain’t gonna pick up your fuckin’ busted body when it catches up with you.”

When he turns his head, and she comes into focus he notices a shaking in her hands. Her hands that are rising to comb violently through the quaff of hair on the very top of her head. Face tilting skyward as she takes a deep breath, “get your fucking head in the game,” warning in a low growl before she gets up and stalks away, across the yard. 

Fuck, he can’t sort this shit out. The last time he felt this, like his mouth was constantly full of ash, was when Ian was sick. When he was so fuckin’ manic that it was clear in his eyes. When he was a man living in a fucking fire and Mickey got nothing but ashes out of it. Feeling his pain raw and palpable between them, like maybe he could just reach out and stifle that flame. Keep it from spreading. He didn’t need the entire universe to go up in flame, he was okay with being surrounded by it. Being surrounded by the danger in the heat. He was okay with getting burned, little nips of fire on his flesh. He was okay with that. That never bothered him, not if he could still see that galaxy in his eyes. Not if he could still see it spinning, but spinning steady and easy. Even when it was spinning wild but contained. When Mickey could put a hand on his wrist and he’d respond. He’d respond when the knife was in his hand, and the cross was in his grip. He’d stop. He’d feel Mickey touch him and it would quench the fire. Even if only for a moment. Even if it meant running wildly after him to throw himself between Ian and whatever barrel of gasoline he was searching for. 

And now? Now his mouth is full of ash. His head is full of miles and he can’t sort it the fuck out. He can’t find the fucking fire and put it out. 

Lying on the mat, eyes wide open to the late afternoon sky. In the distance, barely a shape in the expanse of blue. A crow. A crow soaring high above him where the ground is a distant memory and the air is clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell Me About Mexico readers - didn't think you'd see Eduardo this way, did you? 
> 
> Mickey feeling Ian's pain and anxiety even now when there's a physical distance between them. 
> 
> So when will the distance disappear?


	16. Between Falling And Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian starting to come back to the land of the living.

Between Falling And Rising

 

“Mickey?” he hears it. Coming out of his mouth and reverberating through an empty corridor. It’s empty. It’s been nothing but darkness for days.

“Not even close love.”

“What?” his eyes spring open. Blinking rapidly but the blur won’t recede. All he can make out through the glaze is the outline of a face. Leaning over him. Just an outline.

“You’re safe. Just breathe. Relax.”

Fuck, it hurts. Everything hurts, “where am I?”

“Mexico. You’re being taken care of. Just relax, breathe.”

“I am,” he insists, but his chest feels tight, “my meds,” shit, “my meds. I can’t risk it. I can’t…”

“It’s alright. We got you. Calm. Okay?”

“Okay,” he hears himself respond. His eyes are still blinking at a panicked rate but won’t focus, “where’s Mickey?”

His question is met by silence. Feeling is starting to creep slowly in, “take it easy love.”

“But I’m not moving.”

Hands are on his. Holding tight, gripping them tight against his chest, “it’s okay. Take your time.”

“I am,” why can’t he see? 

“You were lost in the desert. Looks like you took a pretty good fall. Bumps, bruises, scrapes, a couple stitches in your right hand. Sprained ankle. Give it time. Take it easy.”

“I need my meds. I can’t risk it,” he repeats, it’s finally starting to clear. Focus. A woman, “who are you?”

“I’m Lou. A friend of mine found you. You were in rough shape. But you’re going to be fine, alright?”

“I need my meds.”

“I got you. Found your pack, and your car. Assuming you missed a couple doses. Doc here, he’s got you on the right shit in your IV. Okay? You’re okay.”

“But I can’t risk it. Not if I find Mickey. Not if, I can’t go, I can’t just be, it’ll…”

“You’re fine. You’re not risking anything,” her face is so near his, she’s becoming more clear in his vision, and she looks like a fucking angel.

“Am I dead?”

“Fuck no,” she snorts. She draws back and the light behind her head just becomes a light. And she no longer looks like an angel. Just a person, a very well-structured one, but still a person.

“Fiona,” he blurts, “I need to call Fiona. Tell her I’m okay. She’ll freak out.”

“All in good time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means relax and breathe. Take it slow. We’ll get you sorted out. Alright?”

————

“Fiona. She’s going to be so mad. She’s going to lose her building. She’s going to be so mad at me. She bailed me out. And I left…”

He’s been spending most of his time between falling and rising. Somewhere in this gray hazy blanketed version of reality that he remembers from the psych ward. Somewhere that isn’t here but there. And it isn’t there but here. 

Every time he opens his mouth something new rises. A new regret or fear. This time it’s stuck on Fiona. She bailed him out. She must have used her building for collateral. By now he’s missed his court date. Or will soon. And she’ll lose the building. And then what?

He didn’t think about he when he left. His mind was full of Mickey. And Mickey only. Mickey’s eyes and Mickey’s voice. Mickey’s hair and how soft it always felt tucked under his chin. Mickey’s scent and how he’d never smelled anything like it in any other place in his life. Mickey’s face and his smile. Mickey’s cocky nod and his rough hands. Mickey’s body, Mickey’s body against his. Mickey’s gorgeous incredible presence and how it always felt like an unbreakable dome protecting him from all the bad things the world had to offer. 

He didn’t think about Fiona. The only thing he thought about was how much no one would miss him if he disappeared. No different than last time. When he took off for the army. When he took off into the grips of mania. And how it was Mickey, it was only Mickey who came for him. Dragged him back into reality. This last time, Mickey wasn’t there. And Ian slid into mania alone. And no one cared. Only enough to accuse him being unstable, off his meds, acting crazy. No one cared enough to force him back to reality. Not like Mickey would have. 

The grey turning clear. He can hear voices. Unrecognizable, but voices. One sounds older, male. Clinical in his instructions. The other is female. The one that keeps appearing in his head, the one that keeps telling him to take it easy and relax. And now she’s saying something about money, about meeting in TJ, about getting the cash there with no trace. 

And no one responds. She must be on the phone, “I don’t fucking care how it happens Daren. But it happens. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and her voice stops. 

And her face appears. And her hand is on his forehead. It’s cool. It’s calloused. It’s gentle. He finds himself leaning into it. She sighs, “better than it was. Fuck, you’re a mess.”

————

He sits up. He feels heavy. Achy. But his mind is clear. His vision is steady. Scanning the room. It’s set up with hospital equipment. But it looks like a room in a house. The equipment is old. Looks clean. Well cared for. 

He swings his feet over the edge of the cot. Pain throbbing in his left ankle. Hearing himself groan. An older man entering the room quickly, “hold on there young man,” he has a stethoscope resting around his neck. No lab coat. No name tag. 

“I need to go. I need to find Mickey. I need to tell him. I need to go.”

“Not just yet,” hands on his chest, willing him to stay seated. Leaning forward to look at his eyes through the lenses of bifocals, “you rest. You heal. Then you see Mickey.”

“You know Mickey?”

“Rest first. Heal first,” guiding him to lay back once again.

“You know Mickey?” his heart jumps into the back of his throat.

“In a sense. Now rest. Heal,” his voice is growing distant again. Fog is settling around the edges of Ian’s senses. 

“No,” he hears himself whisper, “no. I need to go,” but he’s falling. Falling back into the grey that’s coating his senses.

————

He blinks. It’s clear. Crisp. The colors are sharp. The sounds. The sounds are recognizable. Mostly. Hospital sounds. But the ceiling is not a hospital white or beige. It’s turquoise. Trimmed in bright yellow. The curtains are orange. The color scheme looks like someone vomited a tropical desert all over this room. Fuck. 

When a warm breeze grips the curtains, throwing them out of the way, he sees a house. He blinks against the bright sun reflecting off the walls. On the window sill is a handful of carved wooden animals. The one that grabs his attention is a crow.  
His hand rises, to reach for the wooden bird, but it’s bandaged. It lingers in front of his face for a moment. When it drops, it lands on a starchy sheet in his lap. 

Turning his head, eyes meeting a set of boots. Propped up on the frame of the cot beside his pillow. Dirty, worn out. For a moment he thinks they might be Mickey’s. Those boots that were always connecting hard and quick against a body, a face, a glass bottle, a rock. Scanning the legs, not Mickey. Unless Mickey grew and started shaving. 

It’s that woman. What did she say her name was? 

She’s whittling. Seemingly completely engrossed in the blade on wood. Carving, letting the wood shavings fall into her lap. Her eyes rise suddenly as though she felt a physical poke when he looked at her. She doesn’t speak at first while she watches his eyes intently. Is she waiting for him to speak? Her eyes are stunning, something wild in their depths, but somehow comforting. 

“Welcome back,” she finally smiles at him. Turning her head to shout, “got a live one here Doc.”

After about a hundred questions and a hundred proddings, the man nods at him and takes his leave.

He doesn’t know what to think. What to feel. Starting to realize just how much of a mistake this was. Like he could just cross into Mexico and find Mickey. Just that easily. What a stupid fucking mistake. And what about his family? Not that they felt like a family these last few months anyway. But they were still his. At least he had them in Chicago. Even if he ended up behind bars, even if all he saw of them was through plexiglass, a voice on a telephone. But here, what does he have here? Some strange woman, who for some reason, looks genuinely concerned about him. It’s not like she knows Mickey. It’s not like he can just ask around. He can’t flash his photo all over the country. An escaped convict. Yeah, searching for him should go over well. 

Fuck, he jumped bail for nothing. This was hopeless. Just another fucking thing he can thank bipolar for. And what if Mickey doesn’t love him anymore? Maybe they’ll always be doomed to orbiting one another. Never colliding, always near. 

“I need to go home,” he admits quietly. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe he didn’t miss his court date yet. Or if he did he can figure something out, he can still throw himself at the judge for mercy, it was just another bipolar thing, right? That’s all this was, just another bipolar episode. The blue-eyed crow. The dreams. What a fucking mess. Confusion, regret, sadness bubbling in his chest, threatening to rise. 

An arm appears in front of him. Reaching over him, across his chest towards the window. Grasping the carved crow. She holds it steady in front of his face. His heart stops in his throat, his mind starts spinning and no words will come out of his mouth. There are tiny specks of blue, right there, right where the eyes would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe to say we've seen that Lou has Mickey's best interests in mind, she recognizes Ian and she's taking the right steps to get him back on his feet.
> 
> The one and only reason I didn't want to see Ian take off at that point in the show was because of Fiona's bail. I don't remember what they set the amount for or even if they did, but it's also safe to assume that if Lou thinks 5K is only a decent amount for a winning pot, then she's got a stash. This is another thing I'm using the Codys for. They are very organized and highly intelligent when it comes to keeping their money off the radar - laundered, washed through the right government channels - whatever it all is that skilled criminals can pull off that the rest of us have no idea how to figure out!


	17. Mutual Admiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lou's perspective on some of these developments.

Mutual Admiration

 

“Now, huh? Now that the hard part is over?” she wonders as his eyes fill, stuck on the crow in front of his face, “now you want to go home?”

“No,” he answers immediately, voice shaking.

“Good,” setting the bird down on the window sill again.

“How long,” clearing his throat, eyes rising to meet hers, “how long have I been here?”

“About ten days.”

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah. Some kind of infection or some shit. Had a pretty nasty fever there for a few days. On top of all the other shit you managed to do to your body.”

Gaze faltering, scanning the length of his legs under the sheet, his hand laying in his lap, stopping on the IV, “how, um, how did you find me?”

A half laugh escapes her, “the crows did love.”

“What?” now his gaze snaps back towards her, fuck, his eyes are beautiful when they’re free of fog.

She shrugs, “it’ll never make sense. So don’t worry about it. Turns out, Hell didn’t want ya. So you’re still on Earth,” his eyes narrow. Mouth opening to ask for a better explanation certainly, she doesn’t give him a chance, “so I’ll make you a deal.”

Disbelief appears on his face, scoffing at her, “for what?”

“Well how ‘bout you’d be dead if not for me and Doc here? And how ‘bout I got your fuckin’ bail money posted so your sister won’t lose her shit? So now it’s just whatever fuckin’ law that’ll be lookin’ for you, instead of those sleazy bail bond people comin’ after your family.”

“What? How did you even…”

“Most of the shit you were mumblin’ on and on about made no sense. But you spilled enough details to figure that particular shit out.”

“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me, I don’t even…”

“Shut the fuck up. Let me finish,” a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth in response to the bashful expression starting to rise, “so here’s how I see it. You owe me your life and a good amount of money. Seems you and I have a mutual admiration for a certain cocky little Southsider. Seems I know where he is. And you want to find him,” his mouth opens and her finger rises in the air between them, this kid is going to drive her to her last nerve real quick, “I’ve invested a lot of time, effort, and patience into him in the last year. He’s become very beneficial to me financially. You could throw a serious wrench into that. Especially if you ain’t stable,” sighing, scanning him over from head to toe and back, “I can’t use you the way I can him. But, you must have somethin’ worth somethin’ to me. So, what is it?”

“What?”

“What can you offer me? Gotta be some kind of skill you possess, somethin’ worth keepin’ you around for.”

“Like job skills?”

“No, I wanna hear about your sparkling fuckin’ personality.”

Amusement twinkles across his irises and she can’t help to smile at the sight of it, “I was an EMT.”

“Not now?”

“Well, I still know what I’m doing. I lost my job when I stopped showing up for shifts. I just…” debate raging clearly in his face before he decides to spill, “I’m bipolar. And I just, this last manic episode, I um, I did some really stupid shit. Shit,” his left hand rises to wipe the length of his face, seemingly noticing for the first time the lack of shave, “I loved it though. The job, that is. It was nice to um, I guess feel like I was making a difference. Instead of just,” shrugging as he talks to his hand on his lap, “I don’t know. Just, um, just feel like I’ve been sleepwalking or something.”

The faces of ill children throughout the years are beginning to rise in her memories. The little innocent faces that were nagged by ailments easily cured in the US. Making the slow painful trek to the border. How many had she carried on her own back through the desert nights? With the right supplies, with the right training, with the right drive; this guano ginger could be very useful. 

“Yo Doc? What could you do with an EMT?” hollering over her shoulder, knowing the old man is lingering right outside the door.

“A lot,” his quick response garners a smile from guano. 

“Alright. Well, you might be worth keepin’ then,” she smirks at him as she rises to her feet.

“Wait,” he half chokes, eyes darting to the carved crow, “what about Mickey? Is he, um, is he okay? Is he,” green pool on a forrest floor meeting her vision, “is he happy?”

Her shoulders begin to shrug but she’d be blind to miss the hope resting squarely on his chest, “yeah. Yeah, sure kid, he’s happy.”

————

“What the fuck was that?!” hand rising immediately to catch the blood flowing freely from where he just elbowed her directly in the nose, “fuck you!” shaking her head angrily as she stalks off the mats to let the blood drip into the desert dirt, “fuckin’ prick. Save it for the fuckin’ ring tomorrow night fuckface. Jesus.”

Answered by complete silence. Sure, injuries are a fact of training, they’re nearly a daily occurrence with a newbie. But a year in, a fucking move like that, “what the fuck?!” she growls again as the pain spreads like a spiderweb into her skull, “that was a dirty fuckin’ hit and you know it.”

It was a panic move. An untrained eye could see that. A fucking blind person could see that. But panic, here, between the two of them? “Fuck that!” snorting, flicking her hand to send blood drops flinging into the dirt at her feet. Patience fried, “get your fuckin’ head in the game! Can’t get your fucking shit straight before tomorrow? Then you’re out,” turning suddenly to where he’s standing in the middle of the mats, looking like he may as well be standing on a different planet. 

Her hands come down hard on his shoulders, “you fuckin’ hear me?”

There’s no twinkling on the surface of that ocean blue when it meets hers, just a dark anger centered and rooted, “yes I fucking heard you. The neighbors fucking heard you,” he snarls. 

Her jaw clenches and before she can tell herself not to, she swings.

————

Panting, sweating, bloodied, bruised, and laughing. 

“Fuck,” flopping back beside her on the mat after finally tapping out.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” half laugh, “I do. Do you?”

“Yeah,” not having realized how much stress was wound up in her body from keeping this little secret from him. From probably the only person she considers a friend. It sucks. It sucks to keep secrets. Fuck, it’s just that this whole thing could end up blowing up in her face no matter what she does. Pretty boy’s headspace has been so far off lately, throwing guano back into the mix right now, it could either be the centering he needs or it could be too much of a distraction. The risk is too fucking high right now. Send him into a match with a head full of confusion and the reappearance of a lifelong love who is bringing his own set of baggage back into a relationship with so much fucking baggage it’s a wonder neither of them have broken backs. She’s pried enough information out of him in the last year to get a feel for how fucked up their relationship was, but how much love existed between them. Enough love to carry around for the rest of their lives, but if they just keep picking up where they left off every time they reunite, it’ll just be another unchecked wild burning forrest fire. It’s not hers, it’s not hers to pry into, it’s not hers to regulate. But fuck, she doesn’t want to watch them self-destruct in front of her face, “fuck.”

“Here,” his hand appears between her face and the blue of the sky. Pinched between two bloody fingers is a tooth.

“Fuck. I don’t want that.”

“Don’t want to make a necklace like Charlie’s?”

Grunting an unintelligible response. Followed by, “sorry ‘bout that.”

“Fuckever. Been missin’ about half of it for a few years now. Dad. The dental in the slammer ain’t bad, but ‘spose it wasn’t enough to use state funding for,” he sighs.

“Well, I’ll grab a pair of pliers and take out the root for ya. Enough tequila, won’t even feel it.”

“Fuck, I won’t even feel it right now anyway. Enough other pain to keep me busy. I’m sittin’ out tomorrow. Fuck it.”

“Good. Let’s get fuckin’ puke drunk then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's a business woman, she's already invested in Mickey and she sees that Ian is worth investing in as well. And will the investments pay off - both separately and together?


	18. New Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is getting a new roommate. And could it be...

New Roommate

 

“Where the fuck you goin’?”

She’s cramming all her shit in a bag. Not that she has enough shit to be crammed, but the entire drawer of stuff is in it, “off season,” she shrugs, “you know how it goes.”

“Ah yeah, we train same as during the season,” he can feel his eyebrows risen at her. She won the last match of the year. Pretty big fuckin’ pot too. It took a bit, but that nagging anxiety and ball of nerves that he’d carried around for a few weeks finally subsided. Long enough to get back in the game before the end of the season, pad his pockets a bit for the next few months of being off. Not that being off means having to spend money, they won’t accept anything for room and board. The old lady just shakes her head wildly and mutters what sounds like curse words at him when he holds out a fistful of bills to her. Lou practically spit at him when he made the offer her way. 

The thing about being here, though he can try his damndest to convince himself not to give a shit about the life he left behind, it still nags him sometimes. Wondering what he’s missing out on. Fuck, he didn’t want that fucking kid, could barely stand the sight of him; but that doesn’t stop the regret that rises from time to time. Imagining the milestones he’s missed out on, not that it’d be any better behind bars, and that cunt had stopped bringing him around anyway. But, fuck, sometimes it just stings.  
And Ian. Try as he might, there’s no way to erase that fucker from his memories. Sometimes it’s like he’s missing a fucking body part or something. Phantom pains and all that shit. Waking up in the night, thinking there’s a warm body behind him, wrapped in his arms, the feel of his gentle breath on the back of his neck. That moment between sleeping and waking, that single moment where it’s all so fuckin’ clear. It feels so fucking good, and then he blinks, and it’s gone. And the world crashes back into his senses. The desert quiet, the lull of the ceiling fan, the sound of Lou’s rhythmic breathing across the room. Ian’s not there. He’ll never be here, Mickey just can’t convince his dreams of that.

“Well I got some shit I gotta take care of, probably take a week or two.”

Leaning against the doorframe, feeling strangely rejected, “you, uh, want company?”

“Nah. I ain’t draggin’ you into this shit,” her eyes rise to meet his with her characteristic smirk and sparkling galaxy swirling brightly on her blue irises, “aww, you gettin’ all clingy and needy pretty boy? Can’t bear the though of being without me for two weeks?”

Scoffing at her, arms crossed over his chest, but only mildly denying it. Ending in a shrug and dropped eye contact. Truth is, he feels connected to her, in a way he’s never had with any friend. Or even family member. He’s come to rely on her in ways he’s never relied on anyone, and trust her, “just wondering who the hell I’m gonna train with if you’re gone.”

“Got you covered. Rocky, don’t let her little old frame trick you, she’s an animal. Just go easy on her left hand when she’s in the mitts. She’ll show you more shit in the next two weeks than I could in two years,” she promises.

“If it’s only two weeks, why you packin’ all your stuff?”

“Could be longer. Don’t actually know,” sitting down on her cot to tighten her boots, “but either way, you’re getting a new roommate. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Think you’ll like him too,” she winks.

“Fuck’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Hmm, what’d it sound like?” one brow wiggling suggestively.

“Fuck you.”

“Keep dreamin’ love. But I’ll tell Deran you say hi, got any mail needs out?”

“Give me ten minutes, I will. You doin’ a job with them or somethin’?”

“None of your fuckin’ business,” but she winks, calling her bluff. 

“Don’t get shot.”

“You’re the only bullet magnet ‘round here.”

————

Dinner at five, he got that part. Shower, he got that part. The last bit, she hollered over her shoulder as she was walking away, old-lady-shuffling away. And he didn’t catch that part. 

He waits until she’s completely out of sight before he lies back on the mats, watching the sky standing still in pale blue above him. He won’t say he misses the winter, but fuck, this endless summer, it’s not quite what he bargained for. It’s rained once in the year he’s been here. He can count on one hand the amount of cloudy days he’s seen. 

Spring. That’s what he misses. When the snow has melted into nothing more than a few ice chunks in the gutters. Here and there in the grass. When the sky clears from winter blue to spring blue. 

His right hand rises, finding that sore spot in the groove of his left elbow. Kneading hard into the tendon, grinding it against bone until his fingers are numb and his eyes are closed. He’s not about to admit to the old lady, but the last two days with her, holy fuck. She’s tenacious. He’s exhausted. Which is probably good at this point. Without Lou, he has no distractions between him and his wandering mind. And his fucking wandering mind just keeps wandering back to that stupid ginger fucknut. Not the shitty stuff either, not the disorder, not the break-ups, not the fights. The fuckin’ good stuff lately. Like the way he’d look at Mickey in sideways glances, just to make sure he was still there, he wasn’t just some figment of his imagination. He was there, warm and breathing right beside him. And the feeling, like he could glance at Mickey and know the feeling was reciprocated. They didn’t have to talk about it, they didn’t have to shout how much they loved each other to the fuckin’ heavens. He knew. He knew it all the way back, the backroom at the Kash N Grab. The ball field. The bleachers. It was there. Sure, he’d deny it at that time if anyone asked him. But between the two of them, in those private moments, when it was okay to feel and be felt. When the ice around Mickey’s heart was starting to crack under the heat of Ian’s fingertips. That fucker was so stubborn about touching him. And every time Mickey would give him an inch, he’d take a fucking mile. He hated that, how easy it was for those pale freckled fingers to find their way onto skin Mickey wanted to keep guarded. Keep clothes on. Keep his hands in front of. This bruise, that scar, this dent, that scrape on the flesh he wore as armor. Fuckin’ weak flesh anyway. Every time he’d run a finger across Mickey’s spine that weak fuckin’ flesh would call his bluff, rise goosebumps even in the heat of summer. Flush hot and red and wanting even in the cold backroom of the Kash N Grab. 

It was so fuckin’ easy back then. But fuck it if every time that asshole asked for an inch, Mickey was ready to give him a million fuckin’ miles. Fuck. Threaten Kash and get shot ‘cause if Terry found out, he’d be dead. End up in juvie again. Then Frank’s stupid ass, wanting to kill him ‘cause if Terry found out, he’d be worse than dead. End up in juvie again. Ian just wanted a quick warm fuck and someone to talk to every once in awhile, and Mickey just wanted to keep Ian alive. If Terry found out…  
Fuck. His eyes startle open, no not going there. Not today. That shit’s over. And Ian’s gone. It’s all over. And Ian’s gone.  
Deep breath, it’s over. But this, eyes scanning the dirt yard, the complex, the freedom outpost. This has been quite the awakening. These people aren’t just running from a shitty dad and a life of crime, they’re running from genocide, murder, starvation, rape, human fucking trafficking.

Mickey had it rough, no one will argue that. Dead mom, shitty dad, shitty brothers, fuckin’ Mandy. Jesus, fuckin’ Mandy. Sitting at the kitchen table that first morning. Her hand kept shaking every time she brought her coffee mug to her lips. And every time he saw it, his heart clenched, suspended in his chest. A mental inventory of all the guns in the house, all the blades sharp enough to slice a jugular. Every single image that rose in his mind for days to follow, Terry shot and bleeding out slowly writhing in pain on the kitchen floor, in the exact spot he killed his own wife. Terry’s throat slit, hands rising in attempt to stop it, red seeping between his fingers as he fell to his knees. Eyes wide with terror as the devil himself grasped him by the ankles and drug him down to Hell. But Mickey couldn’t fuckin’ do it. Why? Why? 

Because dreaming of it and acting on it are two different things. Because he’s still father. Because at least with Terry, they knew his tells. They could usually avoid him by then. They could usually escape his wrath. Because they were still together, as together as the siblings ever were, under one fucking roof anyway. Because they’d never been in the system, they were Milkoviches, they didn’t need help. Not from anyone. Inside or out. Fuck the system. Some of the stories Mickey had heard, fuck. 

And Jesus fuck, blood is still blood. Even if it’s contaminated and hate-filled. Fuck, that was probably going to be Mickey one day. Drunk, and hateful. And how do you kill the image of your future? And your past? Bury your past, but it never stays there.  
And every fucking time he pictured killing his father, that seven year old sitting in his own puddle of piss at the kitchen table watching his mother’s body being rolled into a blanket; every fucking time, that seven year old was right there. Right there seeing his only vision of love being destroyed in front of his fucking face. Seeing the full force of rage his father possessed at any given moment. 

So fuck, the only thing he could do was push Ian away. And keep pushing him away. Because he didn’t need to know, he didn’t need to know the true depth of pain and fear embedded in Mickey’s soul. And he didn’t need to know the true danger of loving someone like Mickey. There aren’t fuckin’ words for that anyway. And he had his ticket out, he was going to Westpoint. Allowing him to fall for a piece of trash, well that’d be about the worst thing Mickey could do to Ian. And it didn’t matter, Mickey was fucked for life. Too many ways to count. 

But every goddamned time Mickey built up another attempt at a suit of armor, those fuckin’ skinny fingers would tug and yank, and burn their way right through it like it never even existed. Then he made the biggest mistake he’d ever made. He kissed him. He kissed him and there was no turning back. The ice was no longer just being chinked away from his heart, it was fucking shattered, lying a melting pool in his gut like it had never been there. And there was no fucking turning back. 

And then the door crashed open.

Fuck. Stop, just fucking stop. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it fucking matters anymore. It’s over. Put some more dirt on that buried past. And move along.

He’s got a joint waiting for him in his side drawer. And post-dinner bottle of tequila won’t hurt either. 

But isn’t it just so fucking fitting that he pulls the door open to his place, pulls the door open and the fucking past he keeps throwing dirt at, the fucking past he keeps trying so fucking hard to get out from under; is staring directly at his soul. Directly at his soul with those stupid fucking green eyes full of a million stars and a moon so fucking bright it could light up the darkest night to broad fucking daylight. And isn’t it just so fucking fitting that all Mickey can do is completely freeze, every single part of him seizing up, shutting down, and backing up until his back hits the doorframe. Until he’s suspended in time, the only thing keeping him in this fucking universe, the only thing is that one fucking thing he always loved. That one fucking thing that he will always love. That one fucking thing that, “can’t be here. You can’t be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tendency to darken Mickey's family even further, but just the show's version of Terry was shitty enough to explain the majority of Mickey's behavior. 
> 
> Safe to say, he would be overwhelmed and caught off guard by Ian's sudden presence.


	19. Between A Smile And A Frown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian upon seeing Mickey.

Between A Smile And A Frown

 

“Is he happy? Is he really happy? Like perfectly happy?” he’s pacing. Drumming his fingers on his thighs, pacing. Back and forth in the tropical-vomit spectacle of a room he’s been staying in for a few months now, “am I just going to ruin that? Am I going to walk into his life when he’s happy, and I’m going to…”

“Slow down, fuck,” she leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m just…” his hands shake out, like he’s trying to flick water off his fingertips, “I’m just… I can’t do this,” his chest is heaving, stomach fluttering to a point of irreversible, “I can’t do this yet.”

“Alright. Well he ain’t goin’ anywhere so…”

“But I want to. I want to, I just, I…”

“Need to be stable,” she finishes for him. It’s something they’ve talked often about. She offered to bring him to Mickey weeks ago. After he proved that he was here, and he was worth something. He has learned so much from Doc, so much, and he’s so grateful for it. This weird situation, something that could have ended terribly, but he didn’t think of that when he left. All he thought was Mickey. And if Mickey is in Mexico…

“Yeah. Yeah I need to be stable. I am, I’ve been good. I have been,” he insists to someone who already knows. She’s been checking in at least once a week. Her presence welcome, she’s the connection to Mickey. But more than that. Her curiosity about him, and about the disorder; it is just curiosity, it doesn’t come with judgment or pity. It’s been so easy to open up to her and discuss how the disorder has effected his life and Mickey’s. To map out a plan, not just pills, but support and exercise, Doc had a minor in psychology back when he still practiced in the States so he’s been, fuck, this has been so easy. But now, getting up the nerve to see Mickey, to look in his beautiful eyes, to apologize, apologize for so much, for everything, for every single fucking thing… 

“It’s too much,” he admits, fidgety fingers rising to his face, rubbing his eyes until he sees spots colliding and exploding just the way it feels in his chest right now.

“That’s fine,” her voice is calm, even. 

He feels a cool, calloused hand land gently on his wrist, waiting for him to blink the electric spots away from the darkness and for her face to come into focus, “sorry,” he blurts.

“I ain’t the one who needs apologies,” her eyes are twinkling, her expression is soft, open, “you feel like a sedative and another day going to be enough?”

“Yes, yeah,” nodding vigorously, “yes.”

“Okay,” her hand retracts from his wrist, it lingers in the air for a moment while a debate rages across her irises, “fuck it,” she decides as her arms encircle his frame. It’s tense at first, like she has no idea how to hug a human being. And he’ll admit, it caught him off guard too. But at the moment her tension is turning soft his anxiety is drawing back. He feels his own arms rising to wrap around her back. He feels his face tilting into her neck and he feels some of the winding and unwinding in his guts start to straighten. A deep breath through his nose, filled with the desert sun, dirt, and sweat that linger on this woman. 

He can’t remember the last time a hug felt so comforting. Exactly what a hug should feel. Maybe he can. Maybe he can remember. Because he’s allowed to remember. He’s allowed to remember now because it’s attainable again. Mickey. Mickey’s hugs. Mickey’s hugs were always exactly what a hug should feel like. Even when he was sedated in that police station, and in the psych ward; even when they should have felt like there were layers of blankets between them, those hugs were real. They were everything. His everything. 

————

He’s not sure what he was expecting. Anger? Resent? Relief? Happiness? 

Any of those things. But not this. Staring at him from where he’s backed up against the doorframe. A blank unreadable stare. A wall coming up quickly between them as he slides to the floor on his butt, whispering, “can’t be here. You can’t be here.”

Everything on the Earth has stopped. Everything has fallen away and Ian’s heart has lodged itself solidly in his throat. Fluttering hard and heavy, but not so hard as to be suspect for the beginning of mania. Not the way it felt yesterday. Today it just feels like Mickey. It feels like the reaction that happens, and has always happened, when he’s near. 

Doc brought him here about an hour ago. He’s over at the main house now, staying for dinner. Easing the transition he supposes. He met Rocky and Martin a couple weeks ago. If he’s to stay here and work for them, they wanted to have a chance to get to know him first. Doc explained that it’s not just tending to the fighter’s wounds and keeping them healthy, it’s also the weary beaten travelers. The days they don’t need his services here, he’ll work with Doc out of his clinic in the village. 

He literally set off a bomb on his life in Chicago. He’d probably never stand a chance of keeping his shit together there now. But here, it’s a fresh start. With a fulfilling job. And so far he’s been offered so much more support than he deserves from people who were basically strangers. Finding him half dead in the desert, nursing him back to health, providing food, clothes, meals, companionship. And now a job. More training from Doc than he’d probably ever have gotten in Chicago. The primitive situations require creativity when dealing with even the small things, the things that back home would be simple. It has unlocked a part of Ian’s brain that he thought was long drowned by medication and bipolar disorder. It’s given him the confidence to pursue something more than just getting by. More than just getting by. Happiness. True, whole, complete happiness. 

He watched out the window for awhile. Watched while his heart settled in his throat and the butterflies flapped around in his stomach, as hope started taking flight and the high of being near Mickey again took root. A natural high, the only high Ian has ever had that was okay to have. It was more than okay to have. Fuck, he missed it.

And fuck he forgot just how gorgeous that man is. His solid, stocky, Southside piece of trash. Now his skin is kissed by the desert sun, his muscles are taut and every single one of them is defined. His hair is lightened just slightly from the sun, it’s still mostly that dark, rich, inky black; but now there are hints of espresso and dark chocolate painted in by the sun. It was all Ian could do to stay inside, to watch from the window instead of sprinting across the yard for him. Crashing into him with the eagerness of a puppy who’s been left home alone too long. Wanting to wrap his arms around him, smell him, feel him. Wanting to kiss him with the months turning into years, turning into a fucking lifetime of passion that’s been building inside of him.

But wait. Like it or not, Mickey has built a life here. A life that did not include Ian. And Ian needs to wait. He’s invited himself here, and now he needs to wait. He needs to let Mickey decide where it will go from here. 

He fights his desire to walk to him. To kneel in front of him, to take his chin in his fingers and aim his gaze; to break down the wall of physical distance. All it’s ever taken with them is a touch, just one touch and the walls all crumble. That’s all it’s ever taken. But this time, this time the walls have to come down slowly. They can’t allow themselves to fall apart in each other’s arms. In the ways they always have before. They need to go slow, they need to take each brick out one by one. The bricks of their past wrongs and hurts. Take them out slowly and gently. And once every single one of them is gone, they’ll build a new wall. A strong, unbreakable wall around them both. One of understanding, support, openness, and love. The love that made them both do stupid things, mean things to one another in the past. This is the chance to experience the soul-crushing and soul-healing love that they both deserve now that all other obstacles are gone. All that’s left here, right now, is two men. Two men who can do this the right way. From here on out. 

With patience. 

Ian takes a step back and lowers himself to sit on the cot he was instructed to use as his own. He takes a deep breath, holds it and allows his eyes to travel back to the ocean of blue that he can never quite look away from once he’s found it. He exhales, his heart thudding hard, and he bites his tongue. Wanting to say something, anything. But anything he said right now would sound stupid. He can’t just blurt out how he fuckin’ feels and expect Mickey to do the same. It’s taken him this long, it’s taken him this much distance, and this much heartache to finally understand that. 

Locked onto Mickey’s eyes, feeling everything in the last few months start to heal, the open aching wound in his chest starting to scab over. The low warning sound constantly in his head that Mickey is dead, that Mickey is gone, that Mickey doesn’t love him anymore; it’s starting to quiet. Whisper. Mickey is alive. Mickey is right here. And Mickey still has that look on his face. That look like Ian is a galaxy worth of stars and moons and planets and Mickey wants to spend his entire life looking at it, peering into it, studying and memorizing every single twinkle and spark. 

But it’s also plain as day, what he can see, plain as day. Concern. You can’t be here because you can’t be stable here. You can’t be away from your family. You had your shit together and a life. Your life moved on without me. And now mine did too. And I can’t keep chasing you off every fucking ledge you decide to throw yourself off. I can’t keep leaping into the fire as you jump over it, I can’t keep ending up burned and battered while you just keep running and I keep chasing. It’s all over the breathtaking surface of Mickey’s ocean eyes. The only ocean Ian has ever seen. The only ocean Ian ever needs to see. 

“I am,” he finally hears himself say, “I’m more stable than I’ve ever been,” he promises, voice steady, eye contact unfaltering, “I lost my fucking mind when I lost you, I did that,” he admits, “I’m not sitting here expecting you to jump right back in this shit with me. I don’t want that,” now his voice shakes. Clearing his throat, “what I want is to build something that we’ve never had with each other before,” he shrugs, unable to stifle the hope that’s rising, “healthy, stable, long-lasting. Fuck,” a smile starts to tug at the corners of his mouth, “forever. I want forever. I want forever with you,” letting the smile fall as Mickey doesn’t return the expression, “I don’t want to start over. We’ve done some shitty things, me especially.”

He scoffs, the first noise he’s made since his butt hit the floor, the first expression he’s offered since he walked in the door. Ian knows he wants to shrug it off, tell him it was the disorder, he’s forgiven before he apologizes because Mickey’s never known an apology from anyone for the shitty things they’ve done to him. So there’s no way in hell he’ll ever accept one. Ian knows he wants to tell him he’s done enough shitty things too, enough that they just call it even and forget about it. Leave it in the past. But that’s not going to work. Not this time. 

So Ian raises his finger in the air between them. Receiving a death glare from a man who hates being interrupted. Rising a smile on Ian’s face before he tells him with certainty, “we’ll never build a future if we don’t sort through our past. I know it’s enough of a shock to just see me sitting here. We’re not going to sort that shit out tonight. It’ll happen whenever you’re ready Mick. And I’ll wait. I love you. I should have told you that long before I left you standing at the border.”

His face changes again. Somewhere between a smile and a frown. That same place they’ve always lived their lives. The same place their ‘I love you’s have been spoken before. A place that Ian doesn’t want to spend his life, he wants the smile. He wants all of the smiles. And he wants all of the ‘I love you’s. 

Instead, “you probably want to take a shower before dinner. So I’ll head over to the main house now. I’ll see you over there,” he gets to his feet. Walking out that door will be one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. Walking out that door without touching him, without crushing him with a kiss, without holding his face in his hands and staring at that ocean current, allowing it to pull him deep into the waters. Without telling him over and over and over that he’s sorry and muttering ‘I love you’ on and on through the night. 

But he will. And he does. And Mickey doesn’t move. Not until Ian is almost through the door. Then his hand rises, gripping Ian’s leg, right under his knee. Giving him a gentle squeeze, just to make sure he’s real and he’s here. And Ian hears his breath hitch. And he hates that. But he loves it because he is real. And he is here. And he’s not fucking going anywhere. 

Just that one simple touch rises tingles and heatwaves through Ian’s entire body. Fighting the urge to stay. To just stay and give in to the yearning, to the passion coursing through his veins, throbbing in his ears and making it hard to swallow. 

Then his hand draws back. The heat dissipating, the tingles remaining as Ian steps out into the early evening sun. Taking a deep breath, fighting the urge to fly, walking steadily towards the main house. 

“Guess you’re my new roommate,” he hears Mickey’s voice, all nonchalant like they just saw each other yesterday. Then under his breath, “that fuckin’ bitch.”

And he doesn’t fight the grin rising on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought they were just going to fuck each other's brains out right away? Nah, we've seen that enough. This one won't just be based off their chemistry and pure sex appeal. This one will be something that needs work and willingness to sort out some shit from both of them. But, they're together again, and that's a start.


	20. Traitorous Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited - but does it feel good? 
> 
> Um, yeah, mostly.

Traitorous Skin

 

Fuck he doesn’t know what to think. He thinks he’s dreaming but his eyes are wide open. Staring at the the ceiling, same one he’s been sleeping under for over a year now. Same one he’s watched while he spills his guts to the cocky bitch that normally sleeps across the room from him. Same one he falls asleep some nights watching the shadows of the curtains dancing in the breeze coming in the open windows. Same one he looks at while he blinks away images of his dreams, his dreams that more often than not include that fuckin’ ginger fuckhead who is lying a mere five feet away from him. He’s not sleeping either. 

And Jesus, fuck it’d be so easy to just take the steps over there. Take the steps and reach out. Take hold of him, touch him. Kiss him. Fuck him. 

But fuck him. Just showing up here out of the blue. And fuck Lou for knowing he was here for months. Months? And not fucking saying anything. Not bringing him here sooner. 

“I wanted to wait,” his voice is quiet, but firm, like he read his fuckin’ mind, “it was me that wanted to wait. I was off meds for long enough that I got into some legal trouble. And totally fucked up my life. I didn’t want to bring any more baggage with me than the shit that already existed between us. I wanted to get on a stable routine, stable meds. I wanted to give it some time before I showed up, in case anyone was on my tail. The last thing you need is for me to bring some fuckin’ law enforcement or bounty hunter or some shit with me.”

“Well thanks for that fuckhead. The fuck you do?”

The breath he lets out is laced with amusement, regret, and embarrassment. He hears Ian’s hand rise, rubbing the length of his face, “Honestly?”

“No, make somethin’ up,” turning his head now to look across the room. Taking the chance to look at him, to look at him lying there, here. In the flesh. Dinner was fine, staying at the main house for hours afterwards. Staying with the group there to avoid the intimacy of being here, alone. But dinner was fine, sideways glances. Some conversation, some relearning of each other through the other members at the table. It was comfortable. 

Mickey’s head hasn’t stopped spinning. His heart hasn’t settled. But Ian’s right, they need to take this slow. They have plenty of shit to sort through before they can even consider something resembling mature, respectful, and stable between them. Fuck if Mickey can tell his body that. Fuck he wants him. 

And now he’s looking, he’s making eye contact and it’s all Mickey can do to stay in his own bed. Another sigh before he admits, “Monica died. She died while I was with you. And when I got home, I just felt like I had lost so much. But I felt like I couldn’t process it unless I let myself do it without the meds. Which was a terrible idea. So I was wrong, when I told you I had my shit together,” a sad smile rises. 

Mickey can barely see it in the dimness around them, but he can feel it, “what’d you say? That last part?”

“When I told you I had my shit together, you know when…”

“Right before that.”

“It was a terrible idea,” he knows exactly what Mickey wants to hear again, but he’s not going to step right into it.

“Between those two,” feeling a smile playing at his lips.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I was wrong. I said I was wrong.”

“What? Hold on, I didn’t quite catch that firecrotch,” he catches the pillow that’s sent his way as Ian huffs towards the ceiling, turning his face to hide the smile Mickey knows is plastered on his lips. 

As his heart flutters its way into the back of his throat, he doesn’t stop it. He has no reason to. 

“You, uh, you okay, you know about Monica?” he wonders quietly. A memory rising, that innocent face all freckles and cold weather standing on his front porch.

“Yeah,” he sighs. It’s honest, “now I am. It was just weird, you know, ‘cause when she was around it wasn’t like she was ever really around. And none of my other siblings seemed to give a shit that she was dead. But I just, I don’t know, it felt like, I mean…”

“Spit it out mumbles.”

That sigh-laugh thing happens and he admits, “I thought I was losing the one person that understood me. But that’s not true anyway, just took me a while to figure it out,” his face has turned again, eyes lingering on Mickey’s, “she might have understood how the disorder felt. But she never figured out how to live with it. She let it live her life. I’m not going to do that.”

Fuck, Mickey wants to believe that. He wants to believe it for so many fucking reasons. He doesn’t want to fix Ian, there’s nothing wrong with Ian, but he also doesn’t want to stand in front of him when he has that murderous look in his eye, he doesn’t want to chase him down in a strange country, he doesn’t want to get cheated on and lied to, he doesn’t want to watch him like a hawk as he lies nearly lifeless in his bed. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t mean he won’t if he has to. But, fuck, he doesn’t want to.

As if that fuckwad heard his thoughts, he nods at him. But Mickey’s not going to open the dialogue just yet. Not yet. He’s too exhausted from just laying eyes on him, after spending so much time trying to convince himself it was over. He’d never see him again unless he turned himself in and landed his ass back in prison. Maybe then he’d see him in a few decades. But this…

“And don’t think that I ran from my problems, don’t think I’m using you as a safety net either. Truth is, I ran to you. And in the process ran away from my problems,” a half smile rises, “if that makes any fucking sense.”

“No less sense than any of this makes,” Mickey shrugs. Fuck it, he ain’t the only one around here that ran from his problems and ended up in the desert of Mexico, “now shut the fuck up and let me get my beauty rest.”

“Okay Mick,” amusement in his voice as he settles on his side facing Mickey. That fucker’s going to stare at him all night isn’t he? Fuck, his fuckin’ traitorous skin is rising goosebumps at just the feel of those hypnotic eyes on his flesh. 

Jesus, fuck. He pulls the sheets up and rolls to his side facing away from Ian. The side he normally sleeps on anyway. Though giving him his back is probably even worse considering it’s the side of Mickey that he more often than not is looking at when they fuck. Fuck, there’s no winning right now. But he won’t lie, it feels kinda fucking good. It feels pretty fucking right. The same way it’s always felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go ahead and force Ian to swallow his diagnosis and deal with it. If he wants to keep Mickey he's not going to be a whirlwind in his life all the time. We know Mickey loves him no matter what he does to him, but they're both older now and they've both grown (as much as the show likes to never allow for character growth in most of their characters), they'll never have anything healthy together if they can't figure out how to be healthy individually. Ian's perspective coming at you...


	21. Less Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Ian's thoughts.

Less Alone

 

He watched Mickey last night in the glow of the bright desert moon lighting his flesh in the most horrendously beautiful way Ian has ever seen. He watched him only enough to know he was fast asleep. Then he closed his eyes and immediately gave into the sleep that was pounding hard on his door. 

Now he’s lying here with his eyes closed, letting the morning start to tug him back to awake. Slowly, enjoying the last tingles of sleep. Letting the sound of Mickey’s content breathing across the room coat his senses. Allowing himself to taste this reality. It’s real. It’s not a dream. It’s not a delusion. It’s real. 

A deep inhale through his nose before he opens his eyes. Blinking the ceiling into focus. Long exhale before he turns his head. Yes, that is Mickey. That is Mickey’s shoulder, that constellation of freckles that has become more prominent with the help of the sun. He longs to reach out and touch it. Certain that all the kisses he pressed against that constellation through the years are still there. They’re still keeping a protective layer over that perfect patch of flesh. 

The sheet has been kicked and tangled down to his feet through the course of the night. He was always a hot sleeper. Like some kind of survival mechanism embedded in his soul, never sure when he’d have heat in the house, he evolved to keep himself warm.

Holy fuck, his body. The body that Ian has always loved, and would always love. Didn’t really matter how it looked, but all this physical care of himself in the last year shows. It really shows, Ian loves the commitment to a healthy outlet that he’s made. He’s channeled his anger, he’s learned to care for his body in ways he never wanted to before. He quit smoking cigarettes, hasn’t completely cut out the other substances, but since his income depends on his physical performance he can’t over-indulge. Mickey used to smoke and drink his frustrations, used to pick fights with whoever got too close or looked at him the wrong way, hid his insecurities behind a facade of cockiness and violence. 

He’s not the Mickey that Ian used to know. He’s a man who sleeps now with fists unclenched, with eyes completely shut. He’s comfortable in his own skin, in his own mind. He knows that he is worth something. And it shows. 

Lou assured him the other day that Mickey hadn’t forgotten about Ian. That certainly he was building a life here, one that he was comfortable in, but it wouldn’t be destroyed if Ian showed up out of the blue. 

No, he’s not the Mickey he was. But Ian can’t wait to get to know this new part of him. 

His gaze follows the line of his spine. Stopping at the waistband of his boxer-briefs, wondering when the hell that change was made, but loving it. That cotton layer hugging his perfect cheeks in the most enticing way Ian has ever seen. He feels it shoot like a burning arrow straight to his dick just as Mickey grunts, “stop fuckin’ starin’ firecrotch,” without even turning his head.

Ian sighs a laugh, dragging himself out of bed to splash cold water on his face in the bathroom and prepare for a morning jog. Sitting back down on his cot to tie his running shoes, seeing Mickey’s head turn towards him, he meets his eyes and smiles a, “good morning.”

“Yeah, yeah fuckever. Where the fuck you goin’?”

“Relax, I was given the tour. I know not to leave the grounds.”

“Yeah well you ain’t goin’ out alone ’til I know for sure your dumbass knows where the property ends.”

“That mean you’re coming with me?”

“Yeah it does. Now get the fuck out of here so I can change.”

Smirking at him as he sidesteps his way out, knowing he wants to get up in privacy to keep his morning wood hidden from wandering eyes. Fuck, this will be tough. 

And worth it. 

————

Jogging beside him in comfortable silence as his mind wanders. Vision scanning the desert landscape. Any fears of coming here, of having left his family and his life in Chicago, on the off chance that Mickey truly was the only thing Ian ever needed in this life; the last lingering fears were assuaged when he saw the tattoo on Mickey’s chest. A beautiful crow. Yeah, it covered up a mistake he made in ink. But it didn’t cover Ian himself. It wasn’t to cover the memories or the possibility of a future, and Ian had made it clear on his face when he looked at it through the plexiglass that he didn’t appreciate the gesture. Fucking idiot, shaking his head to himself once again, wondering as nonchalantly as possible, “so, um, how come you decided on a crow?”

His head doesn’t turn, he doesn’t physically react at all, probably already expecting the question, “dreams,” a one word explanation that will more than suffice. 

A smile rises on his face and a tingle rises up his spine. Spreading as slowly fluttering wings through his chest, wrapping his heart in a tender embrace. He always knew they were connected by more than the physical bones, blood, and flesh things, “when?”

“In prison,” he sighs, “I didn’t want to get into it last time, didn’t want you to get all butt-hurt over it. Or some shit. Felt like we had limited time so, just didn’t even,” he clears his throat, “the dreams left me at the border too. But I get it. The only stupid dream interpretation thing I read that made any sense was that if you see crows in your dreams it means it’s time to make a change. I was dying in there. And that damn crow was so persistent I figured why the fuck not? Guess when they left me, it just sort of,” he shrugs, “I don’ know. Like a sign I made the right change or some shit. Believin’ in fuckin’ signs,” shaking his head in amusement, “lost my fuckin’ mind in there I guess.”

“Me too,” he admits, “I mean the crow. Mine had blue eyes.”

Now his head snaps in Ian’s direction. Disbelief tugging through his features before he starts laughing, “guess we both lost our fucking minds then, huh?”

“Yeah,” he half-laughs, though suddenly he feels less alone than he has in years.


	22. A Noose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has Lou been up to during this span of time?
> 
> Deran, Craig, Pope(Andrew) are the Cody brothers. Smurf (Janine) is their mother. She's played a lot of psychological games with them, pitting them against each other but also forcing them to be codependent. There are undertones of physical and sexual abuse from her towards her sons. It is also clear that her past/childhood was totally fucked up and you can't help but also feel for her at certain points in the show. Once again - no need to watch it to know what I'm using them for, just a little overview to help sort them out.

A Noose

 

Fuckin’ place is busy for a Wednesday night. Shoving her way through the crowd to get to the bar. Scanning the back, one chick that she’s met but never committed her name to memory. She catches her eye, looking overwhelmed by the amount of business in here. Tilting her head towards the backroom.

Tapping the bar on her way by, making her way through the crowd, trying to find a Cody boy somewhere in this mess. Craig’s always the easiest to find, that height that hair and that build, or course he’s the easiest to find. He’s disappearing into the backroom when she finds his frame in the dim lights. 

Shoving through the door, wondering, “the fuck’s Deran?” 

“You could try ‘hello’.”

“The fuck would I do that for?”

He smirks at her, sitting down at Deran’s desk, searching through his books for something, “where you been?”

“Where the fuck you think? Where I’ve always been. No one’s called me for anything, ’til two nights ago when I get a weird fuckin’ message from Deran. The fuck’s he plannin’?”

“Hell if I know,” his blue eyes land on her as she takes the steps across the room, perching on the arm of the couch with a sigh. He scans her over with his signature appraisal of all things female that makes her want to break his fucking nose.

“Get your fill?” eyebrows risen towards him when his gaze finally lands on her face.

“Probably never.”

“Never’s right,” she responds, knowing someday she’ll probably end up fucking him. Crossing that line. Because he’s fuckin’ sexy. He’s always got good drugs, and could most likely man-handle her in exactly the way she craves. But not now, “that enough chit-chat? Gonna answer my question?”

He sighs, like the weight of the world is laying on his chest. Then tilts back, arms folded behind his head, hands cupped together. Long legs spread open at the knees, and fuck it if she doesn’t want to just climb on his lap and start yanking his t-shirt off, leaving a trail of lips down his chest and stomach. Then he shrugs, “you got your guy with you?”

“Mick?”

“Yeah.”

“Nah, they stopped fuckin’ a few months ago when Daren started up with that motocross guy.”

“Linc, yeah that ended already. He got back with Adrian.”

She snorts, “you fuckin’ Codys are like revolving doors.”

“Yeah? Step in any time you want.”

“Pass,” but she can feel her face responding, calling her bluff. Shaking it off, “what’s he want with Mick then?”

His hands fall into his lap, practically daring her to look at his crotch, “Adrian’s in some legal shit. Think your guy has some previous experience with dodging law enforcement?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you. Fuck Adrian do?”

“Busted at the airport with a surfboard full of coke.”

“You fuckin’ serious? That’s pretty fuckin’ amateur for your kind of people.”

“Deran didn’t know about any of it. Not sure who he’s working with either. He hasn’t said anything.”

“Good. Never ends well to snitch.”

“He’s just supposed to do time then? Him being in prison probably won’t end well either.”

“Don’t suppose it will,” she sighs, sliding off the arm of the couch onto the cushion and leaning back, “fuck’s Deran thinkin’ then? You ain’t gonna bust him out after he’s sentenced. Got enough to pay his bail? Probably won’t be very high, he ain’t got a record. Though if they know he’s connected to Deran, that’ll work against him. That cop that’s got a hard-on for your organization still lurking around? Or Smurf put a bullet in his head and bury him in the desert? Nah, she wouldn’t get her own hands that dirty.”

“So, um, you haven’t talked to Deran in how long?” now he sounds apprehensive, something she’s never heard from him.

Her gaze lands on his eyes, he looks confused, which is pretty normal but something else is working it’s way into those eyes too. Concern? She shrugs, “I dunno. Few months anyway, sometime back in the beginning of fight season. Was startin’ to think you all had gone straight,” smirking at him. 

“No,” he’s resigned to the life, it kind of sucks to see that in him, knowing he’ll be stuck under his mother’s thumb for as long as she lives. Not like she’ll ever let him, or any of her sons have the things they want out of life. He clears his throat, “so he probably didn’t tell you that Billy was here.”

“Billy?” anger immediately flaring up her spine, “Billy? As in my piece of shit father?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t all bad though. I didn’t think so. Pope definitely hates him, but Deran was starting to get along with him. Then, uh, well then he stole a bunch of cash from Deran and took off.”

Her jaw clamps down on the inside of her cheek, body frozen to the couch. Anger, resentment, pure hate-driven echoes in her head, “that the worst? That the worst he did to Deran? That all he did?”

His brows are lowering, looking at her now with a look like he’s walking on eggshells as he appraises her, “yeah. We did a big job with him, and we were holding his cash to launder it but he broke into Deran’s safe,” motioning towards the one next to the desk, “emptied it out and left.”

“That’s all? He didn’t…” her voice trails off. Thoughts racing, nothing coherent forming. What’d she expect? Deran is a full grown man, it’s not like Billy can trade him for crack or heroine. He can’t pimp out his full grown son. A son who’s already damaged enough by the years with his fucked up mother and her fuckin’ mind games. 

She didn’t realize Craig moved, but his hand touching down on her knee makes her bolt to her feet, “Jesus, fuck. I gotta go. Tell Deran…” her hand is combing though her hair, then dropping to feel for the knife tucked securely against the small of her back, “just tell Deran I, I,” her chest feels cloudy and her vision keeps jumping, “I was here. But I’m fuckin’ out. Whatever he’s plannin’ right now. I’m out. I ain’t…” fuck, why can’t she get her voice to come out, why can’t a single fluid thought be grasped and vocalized, why can’t she just turn around and walk out the fucking door? Why is everything flooding her mind, all the years of faded memories coming into sharp clear focus like they just happened yesterday? 

'Make this one happy tonight ladybug’. Like he’s fucking standing right behind her, whispering in her ear, his hands on her shoulders, ‘make this one happy, he’s got the good stuff’. 

Safe place. A safe place. Find it.

Her back contacts something hard and unforgiving. The frame of the door, she’s backed herself almost out of the door, almost out of here where the air is suffocating and she can’t find her fucking safe place. Her safe place is gone. It’s long gone. And every time she finds it, she remembers. And remembering is too fucking hard, she hears herself gasp. Like she’s just come to the surface after swimming until her lungs are threatening to explode, “fuck,” it shakes and Craig’s eyes are coming into focus, “you got anything on you?”

“Got some Molly back at my place.”

“That’ll work.”

————

Her hands are shaky on the wheel. Stomach churning. The stillness and silence of dusk starting to settle on the horizon as she turns out of the village towards home. Nothing inside of her still or silent. Nothing has been. For a long fucking time.  
Jerking the wheel off to the side of the dirt road. Stumbling out of the driver’s side door. Nothing. Nothing will fix this. Nothing will fix her. 

Stepping out of her boots. Tossing them in the bed of the truck. Peeling her t-shirt off. Taking a moment to run her fingers over the bite mark Craig left on her hip as she trails her jean shorts off. 

The rope out of the built-in toolbox in her clutch. As she walks, slowly and purposefully, she loops it around her arm. Loosely, letting the frays of it scratch her bare skin, feeling it like a blessed release starting to slowly unwind the vines in her body. Vines that she’s desperate to tear down. Vines that have grown and spread, her entire existence in those vines. Winding and wrapping around her soul, nourished with pain and violence. Grown up stronger with every pain, with every soul-breaking ache. Until they’re so thick and wound so tight they’ve suffocated any possibility of feeling purity and goodness ever again. 

She knows exactly where she’s going. Her body will never forget this place. An old abandoned general store in the outskirts of town. She can hear it with every footfall in the desert dirt and rock. She can hear it. So clearly. And see it. So clearly. She can feel it. Her finger lingering on the scar on her abdomen as her foot lands on the bottom stair of the porch. 

She hears it. She hears it as she pushes the door open, half off it’s hinges. Broken glass clinging to the frame of the window. She sees it. She sees it as she walks across the floor. Broken glass, broken shelving, broken life. It’s there, it’s here. It’s under her feet as she climbs onto the counter top. Tilting her head back to look at the open-beam ceiling. A deep breath as the smells surround her, filling her nostrils and lingering. Flinging one end of the rope through the main beam. Her hands work quickly and confidently. 

She hears it. Hears it all. Every single moment. Every single breath. Every single scream. It’s all there. As she lowers the noose over her head. And takes a deep breath. And she hears it. She hears a muffled cry. 

A muffled, choked cry bringing her back to the surface. Dousing the memories running rampant through her mind as her eyes dart across the floor. Landing on a shadowy figure huddled in the corner. Cloaked in the darkness of the abandoned store. Eyes bright and piercing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter exists for a couple reasons:
> 
> 1\. I got ahead of myself in time skipping to reunite Ian and Mickey and completely overlooked giving closure to Mickey's fling with Deran.  
> 2\. Scanning back over comments on Tell Me About Mexico, the chief complaint from people who liked the story was that Lou was too strong/too larger-than-life/too much having her shit together. I hesitate to add too much backstory to OC's because I always think people will lose interest since they came here for Gallavich and the OC's are just the sprinkles on an already layered and frosted cake. In my mind she was very flawed, I don't think I did a very good job of bulking that up for readers though. Really, she's a giant fucking mess under a facade of uncrackable shell.  
> I think there was a third reason but now I can't remember what the hell it was, so feel free to ask if anything is murky - more backstory will be revealed through upcoming events.  
> Now back to the main show...


	23. A Crow's Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gazing at the sunset.

Crow’s Feather

 

“Best part of the desert,” he sighs, leaning back on his hands in the dirt. 

They climbed one of the hills on the outer edge of the property. Sitting here to watch the sunset. The vivid colors that can only be found here. They’ve caught up on the surface things, the parts of each other’s lives they missed out on in the last years of being apart. Ian told him about his last manic episode, the Gay Jesus thing. Mickey’s only concern for the entire thing was where the fuck every one else was. Why was no one helping him? Why was no one even attempting to take care of him? Keep him out of trouble. 

“The rest of it,” he shrugs, “weird how time moves here. With no seasons to mark the years.”

“You ever make it to the beach?” Ian wonders, arms clasped loosely around his knees that are drawn towards his chest. 

“Yeah. Couple weekends at Caribbean resorts. A couple weekends on the Pacific side. Wanna go sometime?”

“Yeah,” trying to hide the eagerness in his expression and the jumpy immediate response, “sometime,” he adds trying to sound nonchalant.

Mickey laughs, reading him like a fucking book, “gonna have to wait for Lou, wherever the fuck she is anyway.”

“Worried about her?” his face is aimed at the horizon. Watching as the orange orb that is the blinding white sun during the day starts to sink low in the sky.

“Nah,” but it’s been three weeks. Rocky hasn’t heard anything from her, “she’s pretty resourceful.”

“I’ve noticed,” he admits. 

During the week Ian’s been spending most of his time in the village, working with Doc. He comes back with that same stupid content smile he had when he talked about Westpoint. Back in the dugout, back when his eyes still sparkled with so much hope, with so much future like it was written right there in green, “you know I, ah,” not sure why he’s going to bring this up. He’s not ready to talk, but, “you know I always pushed you away back then ‘cause I didn’t want to hold you back. You knew that, right?”

His eyes land on Mickey’s lips for a moment before rising to meet his gaze, they’re sparkly like they used to be. He sighs, “yeah. I know. Now, I didn’t realize it then,” his mouth stays open for a split second like he’s going to keep talking, but he must see it already. This isn’t an opening for all the other shit. And he nods. A half smile takes his face and steals Mickey’s breath. With the reflection of the desert sunset in his eyes and an easy smile on his face, he is the most beautiful thing Mickey has ever seen. 

His gaze is locked onto Ian’s eyes, his heart is lodged in his throat and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning even if he tried. He can’t breathe and he can’t see, he can barely feel anything past the heat of Ian’s lips when they meet his. He can’t hear anything beyond the rushing in his ears. And as his eyes plaster themselves shut, he feels Ian’s hand on the back of his neck, drawing him closer. Every single part of his body and his mind, every single part of his world, his universe comes crashing to a halt. Every mile of distance, every past hurt, every present worry is broken stained glass on the floor. All colorful and beautiful with sharp painful edges that could slice through layers of flesh like butter if he’s not careful. 

He stops. Stops kissing, but keeping his face close. Leaning his forehead against Ian’s. For a breath. For two breaths. For three. Until he’s breathed enough of Ian’s air to know it’s still his, that every single one of Ian’s inhales and exhales are Mickey’s. That every single sigh, every single smile, every single word; those are his too. They always have been. They always will be. 

When he leans out he smiles. This time not feeling a need to flip him the bird. Not feeling the need to put on a macho show of uncaring. Not feeling a need to shatter a pane of glass, or punch through a sheet of drywall to prove to himself he’s still a man. He just feels it. Feels the lingering heat of that kiss. Feels the lingering flutters in his chest, stomach. The tingles on his tongue racing all the way to the back of his head. He feels the softness of it, the beauty of it, and the love. And he allows it. 

Tapping Ian’s cheek gently before he gets to his feet, offering his hands to that grinning ginger idiot in the orange glow of the remaining rays of sun. Fuck, he’s the dopiest lookin’ thing Mickey has ever seen, wondering how that transformation happens so quickly, he just grins to himself, shaking his head as they start the trek back to the yard.

————

“Where the fuck were you assholes?” 

Relief he wasn’t expecting rolls down his back at the sound of her voice, “you first bitch.”

“I wasn’t missin’. I knew exactly where I was. Need your services guano,” motioning impatiently towards the main house. Mickey snickers thinking it’s pretty fuckin’ impressive she’d use that particular nickname to his face. And it’s pretty impressive that Ian just takes it in stride. Guess they know each other fairly well already if they’ve made it to the level of pet-names. Fuckever, not like he had any say in his nickname. Pretty boy, he hears himself snort.

“What’s, um, what’s…” Ian wonders.

Her hands drop from the air, landing on her hips with an eye roll, “fuckin’ speed it up ladies,” as she takes off on her stilt legs through the dirt, “little girl. Found her alone outside the village. She seems okay, but she’s definitely dehydrated. Scared, won’t say a word. She’s got a fuckin’ brand on her, looks a few days old.”

“A brand?”

“Yeah.”

“Cartel?” 

“Yeah. One of the Colombian organizations. Fuckers,” she spits into the dirt before entering the main house. In the lights inside, he takes note of how shitty she looks. Like she’s just been on three weeks worth of drug-fueled adrenaline-chasing rampages.

She ushers them towards one of the rooms that Mickey has never been in before. Looks like a child’s bedroom. Twin bed made up with soft yellow hues, the walls hand-painted a field of wildflowers. Shelves lined with neatly folded clothing, a music box, a teddy bear that was once well-loved. A dresser painted sky blue with little hand-carved wooden critters. He recognizes Lou’s handy work immediately. And when his eyes flit across the room to find her, they land on a framed wall-hung photo. It’s Lou and a little girl. The little girl is blonde, she’s smiling and so is Lou. Little girl looks about three. And her eyes, her eyes hold the same sparkle of mischief and promise atop a blue iris that’s grown so familiar in the time he’s been here. 

His breath catches in his throat, her eyes meet his slowly, stepping in front of the photo purposely with a glare that warns not to ask about it. So he doesn’t. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, forcing his focus to where Ian is checking over the little girl. She’s probably six. She looks well worn from a couple days in the desert heat without the protection of a parent. But there’s nothing physically warning of imminent danger. Her skin is the velvety color of caramel. Hair is so dark black it’s nearly blue, feathery and thick. Her eyes are closed but when Mickey’s glance over them, they spring open. He takes an immediate step back. His breath lodges in his throat, behind those dark delicate lashes is a blue so piercingly bright it sends a shiver down his spine. 

‘Good morning sleepy face,’ echoes in his ears, falls over his senses like a blue-black crow’s feather floating through the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waiting a few weeks to have a first kiss - check.
> 
> Another sign that looks an awful lot like a blue-eyed crow - check.


	24. Not Just Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussion about prison.

Not Just Anyone

 

“She’s still not talking,” he sighs as he takes a seat at the outdoor table across from Mickey, “but she’s eating anyway.”

“Good.”

They’re not going to talk about it. Not yet. Neither one will voice the fact that she resembles a blue-eyed crow. Because even if they both see it, voicing it will make it crazy. Ian knew Mickey saw it immediately, when he took that step back as though she had reached out and shoved him. He saw that. He felt it too, but he fought it. He had to. His is the face of caregiver, he couldn’t allow himself to show any signs of shock or disbelief in front of her. 

It’s been two days. The first time they’ve kissed in what felt like a fucking century and then a blue-eyed crow shows up on their doorstep. Ian’s been triple checking his meds the last couple days, though this doesn’t feel like a psychotic break, it certainly feels too weird to be real. 

“Fuck the desert, man,” is all Mickey will offer on the topic. Folding his hands behind his head and leaning back to look skyward in silence. The sky starting to turn shades of navy blue, stars like pin pricks of light showing through a piece of construction paper. Like that time he made a fort for Debbie. One night when the power was flickering with every boom of thunder and crack of lightning. Fiona was working late, Lip had gone out chasing after Karen. And it was just Ian and the kids. Debbie was getting more panicky every time the thunder rumbled. And Carl’s satisfied psychotic glow was glowing more brightly with every flash of lightning. Liam was unaffected by all of it, just toddling around in nothing but a diaper flinging his sippy cup across the room every so often. He made the fort out of pillows and blankets on her bedroom floor. Got a battery powered lantern out of his ROTC stuff, poked a bunch of holes in a piece of black construction paper and taped the corners down to anchor it. With their homemade stars projected on the blanket ceiling of the fort, they told stories and laughed until all four of them fell asleep in their safe haven.

Fuck, he misses that. But that was long gone before he left anyway. Those kids didn’t need him around. He was just a burden on them by the time he left. A burden on everyone.

He opens his mouth, not sure what he’s going to say, but he wants to hear Mickey speak anyway. Maybe he’ll ask him how training’s been the last couple days since Lou’s been back. Maybe he’ll ask him if he has any injuries, aches, or pains that need to be worked out. Or maybe he’ll just, well fuck, he’ll just sit here with his mouth partway open and stare at him until he smirks, wondering, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

And he wants to say something gay, like, “the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” and he didn’t mean for it to come out, but it did.

And now Mickey’s snorting a, “you’re so fuckin’ queer man,” but a smile is rising and he’s giving him that cocky half nod, “c’mere,” hand appearing between them, meeting Ian’s chin to bring him close. And his lips are warm and comforting, and everything they’ve always been, sparked with chaos and peace at the same time. And this fucking table that’s between them is suddenly too fucking long, but it needs to be there because if it’s not there then they’re just doing what they’ve always done and closing the gap between them by kissing, groping, and fucking. And that’s not what they’re going to do this time. Mickey knows it just as well as Ian does. Lips parting against each other, but not progressing to the face devouring kisses that normally happen. It stays innocent, though there’s nothing innocent about what is happening in Ian’s pants. Probably Mickey’s too, since he leans out. Taking a deep breath, letting his forehead lean into Ian’s for a few breaths before he taps his cheek and draws back completely. Settling into his chair, hands behind his head like nothing intimate just happened. 

That self-assured and content smile lingers on his lips as his eyes scan over Ian’s face. Certain he looks like he just ran a fucking marathon, completely wrecked by just a little kiss, just one little kiss. Fuck, it’s never been just a little kiss between them. No matter what Mickey thinks. He half-laughs before his gaze drops to the table between them. Chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. Ian wants to prod him, tell him to just say it, say whatever it is that’s lingering on his lips, just fucking blurt it out. He can do that now. He’s allowed to do that now. 

But he’s not going to push. He won’t force the things he wants now, forcing through Mickey’s barriers. That’s not his job. Mickey has to tear those down himself. He needs to want it for himself, not just to make Ian happy.

“Yo pretty boy,” crushes the opportunity to talk. And that’s okay. He stifles a laugh at her chosen nickname for him, he stifles it every time, “how you break out of prison?” as she plops down hard in the remaining chair beside him, propping her feet on the table, rolling her head a few times. Trying to dislodge some tension in her neck, she’s been extremely tense since she got back. Ian assumed it was the little girl, but he hasn’t had a chance to talk to her about it. 

He shrugs, and the line is well practiced but not really believable, “seduced a female guard.”

Her eyes narrow. Ian wanted to call that bluff, way back in the first place, but there’s been something so guarded about it, something so pained, “fuck that,” she grunts, “don’t fuckin’ lie to me. You’re gay. And no woman is going to give up her life, career, income, and possibly do fuckin’ jail time herself for a couple of well timed winks from a gay boy no matter how pretty he is.”

Talk about blunt. Silence lingers for a moment as Mickey chews the insides of his cheeks. Body language starting to read closed off when just a moment ago it was so open and willing. Arms crossing, face going stony, “why you wanna know suddenly?”

“Deran’s amateur ass of a boyfriend got busted at an airport with a surfboard full of coke. Fucker’s lookin’ at a pretty hefty amount of time, ‘less he rolls on his organization, but I doubt he even knows enough to get his sentence knocked down anyway. And rolling on a drug organization will land his ass in a fuckin’ body bag, so…” she shrugs, “just weighing some options here before Deran does somethin’ stupid.”

He shrugs, “can’t help you.”

“Fuck you. Don’t fuckin’ lie to me asshole.”

“Maybe I didn’t fuck her, maybe I just sweet-talked her and made a bunch of fuckin’ promises or some shit. Chicks fall for love talk all the fuckin’ time.”

“Yeah and I’m sure you weren’t the first prisoner to try that shit with her.”

“No, just the only one that worked it the right way I guess,” he shrugs again. 

But it’s such a fucking lie. One that Ian won’t press, he knows that if Mickey is lying it’s probably something really fucking painful. And the way his jaw is set in a stubborn line, it’s certainly something he can’t even form words for. Lou seems to sense this as well, but apparently she’s not going to let him keep it to himself. Staring at him intently while he stares back. She doesn’t vocalize it again, she doesn’t vocalize anything, just stares. 

“Jesus, fuck,” his hand rises, wiping the surface of his face, “maybe lady guard grows a fuckin’ conscience or some shit when she finds me almost dead and gang raped after the fuckin’ Russian pricks paid off another guard to leave me accidentally unattended during my fuckin’ shitter cleaning duties. Maybe lady guard is sick of the corrupt fuckin’ system and doesn’t want another dead inmate on her newly found conscience. Maybe lady guard is sick of her fuckin’ job including silence and turning a blind eye after twenty years of doin’ it. Maybe lady guard sat down next to me in the infirmary at the end of her shift and told me as much, and it would take a few fuckin’ weeks for all the pieces to fall into place but she’d get me out. And maybe Damon gets a free ride ‘cause if I suddenly disappear then the Russians’ll just take it out on my cellmate.”

He’s silent for awhile, his stare burning holes into her eyes that haven’t left his. The insides of his cheeks chewed raw by now. Ian can taste bile in the back of his throat and he’s frozen with terror, but he’s keeping the expression off his face. He can’t do that again, he can’t just look on with disgust and pity all over his face when the man he loves shares a horrifyingly painful part of himself, he can’t do that. So he keeps his face blank and he keeps the bile down. He stops himself from saying anything. He stops himself from reaching out to touch him. 

Finally the silence breaks when his breath shakes and she tells him, “that’s some shit, love,” and her fingers land on top of his knuckles just briefly sliding over each one on his right hand before withdrawing.

Now his hands are searching for a cigarette, a bottle of booze, or something to punch. They settle for the joint she removes from behind her ear and the lighter being handed over, “yeah, well, shit happens,” he snorts before sparking the lighter.

“Yes, and you are a dung beetle.”

He half-chokes on the smoke he’s letting roll out of mouth slowly, “fuck’s that s’posed to mean?”

She takes a long toke, blowing the cloud towards his face as she smiles, “dung beetles feed on shit. So it literally makes them stronger.”

“You’re a pain…”

“Sacred in Ancient Egypt. The dung beetle. They were believed to be male only, reproduced by depositing their semen into a dung ball,” she snickers, “so the more shit the better,” her eyebrow arches as she gets to her feet, handing him the remainder of the joint, her fingers comb through his hair as she walks past him towards the main house. 

Ian lets him finish the joint in silence. He wants a hit, but he knows he can’t. There’s an unspoken agreement between them that Mickey won’t make the offer, and Ian won’t expect him to change all of his habits to cater to the disorder. Part of mastering the disorder is mastering his self control, not forcing his will on the people around him. 

There’s also a silent agreement happening right now, right now when his gorgeous ocean eyes rise to meet Ian’s, an agreement that they won’t talk about this. It won’t become a thing between them when there’s already so much between them as is. It is Mickey’s to deal with, and if the time comes when he wants to deal with it by talking, then Ian will be there to listen. Sure, when he gets a chance to hold, he’ll hold him that much closer, knowing now that he’s been violated in ways Ian can’t even begin to understand. The conversation he wishes never happened rising in his head, ‘mouth and ass rapings, anyone can handle that shit’. That’s nowhere near true. Someone as strong as Mickey can handle that shit. Someone as brave as Mickey can handle that shit. Someone as incredible and stubborn and insanely fucking beautiful inside as Mickey can handle that shit. Not anyone. Not just anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The female prison guard is one of the many canon storylines that I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't acknowledge. I always sweat like a whore in church when I throw more shit at Mickey, he's been through enough without my meddling. But we know he's a dung beetle, he's not just anyone, and he's a hell of a lot tougher than most.   
> I also would like to acknowledge how often rape comes up in my fics with these two, but for me as a watcher I think the most painful scene in the entirety of the show was Mickey's corrective rape. And I wanted to throw as many knives as I possibly could at the conversation between Ian and Terry.  
> If you are a survivor of rape I'd like to tell you that you are so strong and so brave. I hope I am doing justice to the topic in this fic and treating it with the respect it deserves.


	25. Friends Don't Let Friends Lay Alone In Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a relationship that could make a huge impact on Mickey's life. And the sealing of a friendship with the comfort of a safe place.

Friends Don’t Let Friends Lay Alone In Darkness

 

Stop staring. Stop fuckin’ staring you little shit, he really wants to say it. Really wants to say it. But she’s so alone. And he can’t fuckin’ say it. She gives him the creeps and he can’t fuckin’ say that either. And she keeps picking him. He keeps being her focal point. 

Lou is clearly shut down to her. Sure, she saved her from certain death in the desert, but beyond that won’t even look at her or acknowledge her existence. Rocky and Martin are doing what they can, trying to gently coax her out of her silence. Ian is being Ian, a little overbearing and a little helicopter parent and the fuckin’ kid doesn’t speak English. Even if she speaks at all. 

Fuck Lou for not trying with her. His eyes graze over her at the dinner table. In the seat as far away as possible from the little girl. Even then she’s leaning out, like the forcefield around her isn’t enough to keep the kid out. 

He takes a deep breath. Feeling her eyes on him again. She’s like fucking six years old. How dangerous could a fuckin’ six year old possibly be? Fuck it, he meets her gaze across the table. She’s got a rag doll tucked under her arm, she’s just barely eating anything, mostly pushing the food around on her plate. Those eyes, fuck. They’re so shocking in that innocent little face. They look like eyes that have lived a hundred lives. Knowing too well what this world will do to innocence. 

Fuck it. He smiles at her. She smiles back and a tiny faded star sparks to life on her iris. Something like relief starts working it’s way through his system. He raises an eyebrow at her and tilts his chin towards her plate. She shakes her head. He points at the vegetables on his plate and then points at his bicep. Raises the eyebrow and tilts his chin towards her plate again. She does a pretty good eye-roll for a six year old and complies. Taking a tiny bite of tomato. He stabs a juicy cherry tomato on his fork and puts the whole thing in his mouth, making faces to make it look like the most incredible thing he’s ever eaten. She half-smiles again and then copies him. 

No, Mickey isn’t really sold on vegetables. He’d give just about anything for a nice greasy fast-food burger, but he is sold on how much more energy he has when he eats this healthy shit. And the way they prepare it here, it actually makes it taste like real food, not just a bowl of raw crunchy tasteless salad drowning in ranch dressing. They’re fresh out of the greenhouse or straight from the market that morning. And the taste is undeniable. 

He stabs a piece of cucumber next, being certain to make show of it being incredible too. This time she giggles a little as she copies him. He sees Ian’s smile out of the corner of his eye. And feels his own. A tiny victory, but it feels like winning the fuckin’ Stanley Cup. 

The second giggle is bigger, about five more stars spark to life in her eyes, and it sends a tingle down his back. But the thing he catches out of the corner of his eye this time doesn’t feel like a victory. Rocky’s wrinkled hand coming down to give Lou’s a gentle squeeze on the table, Lou jerking her hand away as though the old lady prodded her with a hot poker. A few deep breaths before the moment passes, then she stands, excusing herself, depositing her mostly full plate in the kitchen, and disappearing through the back door. 

He waits. He lingers in the main house while the little girl is guided through some bedtime routine by Ian and Rocky. He helps Martin clean up the kitchen and the dining room. They share a glass of dessert wine by a fire he’s lit in the fireplace. The evenings cool enough to bring a chill into the house now. 

The old man’s silence is heavy tonight where it’s usually comfortable. Lou still hasn’t reappeared by the time the kid is in bed and he walks back with Ian to their building. At the door, he lays a hand on the small of Ian’s back, fuck, it sends lightning bolts through his fuckin’ veins, but he resists it, “I’m going to find Lou real quick.”

“Probably a good idea,” with an understanding smile. 

He’s still uncertain of what to do in moments like these. When they’re parting ways for an hour, or an afternoon, or a day. He wants to kiss. He wants to touch, he wants to send himself off with a parting shot of grabbing a handful of asscheek hard and fast, or wrapping his arms around Ian’s waist and grinding their bodies together for a spark of heat that will last for the time they’re apart. A spark of heat that will linger in his belly and his groin for the rest of the day. 

Instead he nods, “see you in a bit.”

Green eyes in the dim glow of the light spilling through the window scanning him over, debating the same thing Mickey just debated. But he gives in, his hand sliding across Mickey’s cheek. He feels himself giving in at the touch. Tilting his face up, waiting. Watching that face as it nears, watching until his eyes flicker shut at the contact of lips on lips. It’s sweet and tender, the kind of kiss Mickey would never admit he loves. But he fuckin’ loves those kisses. And yeah, even that little kiss, it’s enough to spark that heat. That heat that lingers in his core as he’s walking across the yard alone in the dark. As he’s scanning the hills behind the main house for a shadowy figure or a flicker of light, or something to prove she’s still back here. 

Atop the rise beyond the greenhouse, he stops. Letting his focus readjust to the glow of the eery moonlight. She’s a little ways back. Lying on her side in a patch of wildflowers. He takes the distance slowly, making enough noise to know she’s hearing him approaching. Not a woman that responds well to being snuck up on. 

He stops near her feet. She’s wide awake, eyes unblinking. One hand slowly caressing a flower petal she tore off one of the desert daisies. If it’s even a daisy, whatever the fuck those flowers are called anyway. The other hand extended, palm flat against the face of a wooden grave-marker. 

Emma Louise Shea.

Fuck. She was only three years old. 

Fuck. He takes a deep breath, lowering himself near her. Far enough away to not touch, close enough to reach out if she wants to. On his side. Facing her. Not speaking. 

The glow of the moonlight catches a tear that’s escaping her. Trailing down her nose and lingering there. A moonlit pool in a desert. He wants to reach for it, but he doesn’t. He watches her, unblinking, for a long moment. His left hand extends, falling to the space between them. Palm up, open for the taking. If she wants it. 

If she can be his safe place, then he can be hers. It takes her so fucking long to reach out that he starts to think she’s not going to. And that’s okay too. When she finally does, and her fingertips graze his, it’s like a door opening. Just a tiny crack, a tiny sliver of light spilling out across a darkened hallway.

‘Materials can be replaced. Friends can be replaced. Only thing that can’t is life.’

But here’s the thing about friends. Friends don’t let friends lay alone in the dark of a chilly desert night with nothing but a heavy relentless weight on their chest and the eery glow of a full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will provide further explanation into the stars and galaxies that Mickey sees in certain people's eyes as we progress with this story.


	26. I Ain't Your Puppet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some apologies, a flashback, and a kiss.

I Ain’t Your Puppet

 

He takes a moment to watch the scene before he enters it. He spent the day at Doc’s clinic and he’s exhausted. In all the right ways. Even on bad days, it seems like so much more, like a higher calling than he’d ever achieve in the States. Especially if he ended up in prison, his entire life on pause for years, probably unable to keep up his certifications. And who in their right mind would let a bipolar criminal work in healthcare?

Here, it’s different. He’s working with one doctor, one man who is well acquainted with the disorder, who knew about it before hiring him. One who is able to help him without being overbearing or pushy, and one who is teaching him so much shit that he’d never learn back home with his labels hanging over his head. 

A smile rises on his face as he watches Mickey tossing a boomerang across the yard. He told Ian proudly a couple days ago that the little girl’s name is Rosa. She’s six and her favorite food is pandebono, which apparently is cheese bread. He’s a little jealous that she’s opened up to Mickey so quickly. But he understands it. With that face, and with that easy smile that he wears now, it would be hard for anyone to shut him out. 

Lou is lying on her back on the mats. Ball cap and aviators blocking the sun, and also an arm strewn over her face for good measure. He can’t figure it out. Lou and Mickey both look like they’re carved out of fuckin’ stone, but the amount of time they spend just lying on their backs on the mats every day and the amount of pot they both smoke, it is truly a mystery to him how they’re both in such good shape. 

The boomerang comes back, landing in the dirt at Rosa’s feet after it slips through her fingers. Ian has never understood boomerangs, he’s never once gotten one to come back to him the way it’s supposed to. But Mickey always does. He says there’s nothing to it, there’s no right way to throw one. ‘You just throw the fuckin’ thing and it comes back fuckface’, or something like that. 

Now he’s kneeling down beside her. And the boomerang is in her grip and her wrist is in his. He’s walking her through it, and Ian is certain it is not ‘throw the fuckin’ thing and it comes back fuckface’, that he’s telling her. He doesn’t stifle the smile anyway, not until an image rises. Sharp-edged and painful. Mickey taking baby Yev in the safety of his arms in that police station. His lips brushing that round head gently and mumbling to him. Mumbling that Ukrainian phrase he was always mumbling at him. And he never told him what it meant.

————

“You, uh,” clearing his throat as he takes his running shoes off, sitting on the edge of his cot, “ever see him or Svetlana?”

Him. Our son. Fuck, “no,” admitting with a pang of guilt. Why? It was too hard, it was too hard seeing you through that glass, and it was too hard seeing that mini version of you face-to-fucking-face and I was a coward about it. About all of it, “I mean a couple times in passing when Svetlana lived with Kev and V. But,” shrugging, “I don’t know. It was…” he plops down hard on his own cot. Running his hands over his face, through his hair, “hard. Fucking stupidly hard and I was stupid and selfish about it. About all of it,” it’s going to tumble out now whether he wants it to or not, “I should have visited him. I should have made sure Svet was okay, that they had enough money even. Or were happy. As happy as they could… I fucked up. And you. I just ignored your existence. I should have visited. I was so fucking stupid. I should have visited you every single fucking chance I had. You called,” his voice shakes, “Jesus, fuck. I should have answered. I just kept telling myself it’d be harder to hear your voice. It’d be easier if I could just ignore it. If I could erase you from my memories, like it didn’t fucking matter. Like none of it, our relationship, our son, our life; none of it. I could pretend that it wasn’t the fucking happiest I’d ever be in my life. I could pretend that I didn’t love you as much I truly did. I could pretend that I didn’t love Yev. And even Svetlana, fuck. I don’t know.”

He stops. Taking a deep breath. Waiting for Mickey to say something, or cut him off, or shrug it all away. But he doesn’t. His eyes seem to be locked on Ian’s lips. He doesn’t blame him, he can barely make eye contact right now either. He can’t bear seeing pain in that ocean, pain he caused. 

“It was stupid Mick. But it was like, if I could convince myself that part of my life was all just a bipolar fucking delusion, then I could convince myself that my life without it wouldn’t hurt so fucking bad. I could convince myself that a job and a boyfriend were enough. A job I loved and a boyfriend that I only sort of liked. And the fucking stupid shit I said,” his idea of a date. Yeah, his idea of a date. Beat the hell out of me and then fuck, “Jesus, I hit you just as much as you hit me. I instigated it. Every fucking time. And I never,” his voice chokes off in his throat when Mickey’s surprised eyes linger on his, of course he has no idea he said that about him, and has no idea why he’s bringing it up right now. 

His mouth opens, wanting, Ian is sure, to cut him off and take full responsibility for this, “I kicked…”

“No,” he interrupts, “I never should have approached you like that.”

“You were a fucking teenager Ian. You just…”

“You were a fucking teenager too Mick!” he can’t help it that his eyes have started to water, blinking the tears back to no avail, “you were a teenager too. You were a teenager who had been raped. And you didn’t have to say a fucking word about it because I saw it happen. I saw it all happen and I wanted you to make me feel better about it. And when you didn’t, I wanted to push you into some kind of fucking commitment, force you to admit your feelings for me when I didn’t even admit mine for you. And what the fuck were we going to do anyway? Run away together? You were trying not to get shot in the fucking head by your dad and I was forcing you to fag bash. What the fuck was I…”

“Ian, stop,” his voice rising, but it shakes.

“No. You spent your entire childhood being physically and emotionally abused and I came at you without letting you sort anything out for yourself. You were forced to do so much fucking shit you didn’t want to do, and then there I was forcing you to make a commitment that was impossible to make. You weren’t about to run away from your unborn child, and then there I was again standing in your bedroom doorway making it sound like you were the one to blame for all the shit that went wrong between us. And there I was, running away. Running away from you, and from our unborn child. I was there, I was right there when he was conceived and I pretended I had nothing to do with any of it. Like me fucking you had nothing to do with you having to fuck her. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking Mick. I watched that piece of shit pull a gun on you, pull a gun on his own son, I watched him pistol whip you, and I still forced you to come out in front of him and his gay-basher buddies and your wife who loved to use your love for me as a threat. And I fucking knew it, I knew if I walked out that door you’d do it. You’d do something big and irreversible just to get me to stay. Even if it meant your dad wanting to kill you, and trying to kill you. And I didn’t bother telling you how fucking brave it was. I was so obsessed with how much better I felt, how free I felt, that I wanted you to feel the same even though there was no way you would. Not then.”

————

The walk home is silent. The glow of the streetlights harshly yellow on the snow mounded up along the curbs. The air coming out of their mouths in painfully silent clouds of words frozen inside their lips. Mickey’s metallic with the taste of blood from a broken tooth and a fat lip. Ian’s thick and dry with guilt starting to creep in. Too dry to say anything. Too painful to say anything. Hands shoved in their pockets. The buzz of alcohol receding into the buzz of post-fight aches. He wasn’t certain under the glow of the streetlight outside the Alibi if Mickey’s eyes were fogged with concussion or if it was just everything else.

He grunts out some pain when he stoops to remove his boots inside the entryway, seeing Mickey nearly fall over when he does the same. Unsteady on his own two feet as he tugs his jacket off, then remembers he was going to have another smoke. Sliding it back on but forgetting his shoes as he steps out to the porch. 

Without an invitation, and without the warmth of his presence Ian is starting to feel the full weight of what he’s just done. ‘Ian, what you and I have makes me free. Not what these assholes know’. How the fuck did he not hear that? It was clear as fucking day. And now that he’s standing here in the familiarity of the Gallagher house, it’s starting to come back to him in flashes. That fucking morning, the morning that changed everything for Mickey. That morning that Ian had long ago shrugged off as just another day in the Milkovich house of horrors. A house that Mickey still has to walk into, still has to sit on that couch, still has to look in the face of his father, in the face of his now wife, and the tiny little face of that baby. Just another day in the Milkovich house of horrors where beating your children, and raping your children is the norm. 

He hears a choked cry part his lips and he closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he finishes removing his jacket. Nothing he can do about it now. Nothing but help clean up the mess. Terry is behind bars. But now what? Now his shithead buddies know his son is gay. And now the shitheads that Mickey’s worked with on his drug runs know he’s gay. And what now? Should he be looking over his shoulder, should he be looking over Mickey’s shoulder all the time? How will the others react, his drinking buddies, his wife? All the other neighborhood thugs and shitheads, will they be glad to hand down a beating to a fag? 

Fuck. He turns to look out the window where Mickey is slumped on the top porch step. Shivering and bleeding. Fuck, he did that. He did that to the man he loves. And he doesn’t look very fucking free, does he? No. He looks defeated. There is no set of victory in his shoulders. There is no feeling of overcoming a hurdle in the air. There is no feeling of self-assurance and confidence rolling off his stance. He just looks fucking wounded. Completely exhausted and deflated. Like the way that stupid ‘Welcome Home Terry’ banner looked hanging above the church doors. On it’s last legs, unable to withstand even a slight breeze.

He bites back a cry when he sees Mickey move. Pained and sore, as he drags himself to his feet. As he leans against the railing for a moment, staring out onto the street in the cold. His fingers rise, meeting his eyelids and grinding for a long time. The frosted exhale comes out in three gusts, little gusts of hurt and confusion. 

Jesus fucking Christ Ian, just go out there and put your arms around him. Tell him you love him. Tell him he’s so fucking strong it’s breathtaking. Tell him you appreciate him. And you’ll stand beside him through all of this. You’ll be the support he’s never had. You won’t push him to do the shit he doesn’t want to do anymore because you love him exactly as he is. And you always fucking have.

He’s still standing there when the door opens. And Mickey doesn’t look at him. As he slowly removes his jacket. 

Yeah, they fought him. They fought him side by side and it felt great to bloody him. It would have felt great to stifle the life out of him. But the thing is, it doesn’t reverse any of it. It doesn’t take them back to that day on the couch and stop it from happening. It doesn’t take away the years of hurt that Mickey’s endured because of that man. It doesn’t take away the years of hurt still to come for him. Guy might be behind bars but that doesn’t mean his presence won’t be felt. He’ll always be that growl in Mickey’s ear, ‘I’ll fucking kill you’. 

He doesn’t look at him as he walks past him, trudging slowly up the stairs. He doesn’t stop until he’s seated on the edge of the bed. Pulling his jeans off slowly. Ian should get down on his knees and do that for him. Suck his dick while he’s down there. He should walk over and kiss him, even just the top of his head again. 

“Let’s get cleaned up,” he whispers lamely.

And Mickey nods. Sort of. 

“I’ll start the shower,” stepping out of his jeans and leaving them on the bedroom floor on his way out. 

The steam stings every bruise and cut. And a deep ache in his bones is starting to rise. He’s so fucking tired. He stays in the hot water and waits. But Mickey doesn’t show up. He doesn’t step in. Maybe he wants to clean up alone. 

Something is rising in his chest as he towel dries. And it isn’t just the pain of tonight’s fight. It’s a deep ache, knowing he pushed too far. This time, he pushed too far. 

But there’s no taking it back now. 

The hallway light spilling into the bedroom where Carl and Liam are sound asleep, where they didn’t even move when Ian and Mickey came in. And Mickey. Mickey is on the floor. Next to the bed. Where he was sleeping when Ian told him he could stay here. At first. Like he wasn’t allowed in the bed with him. Why wasn’t he allowed in the bed with him? Why was Mickey being punished for bringing him home, for pulling him off the ledge he was trying to throw himself off? Why did Mickey have to suck his dick to get him to stay? Why was it Mickey’s fault his bitch whore of a wife threatened Ian? She wasn’t Mickey’s choice. Not then. Not now. Not ever. She was a choice made for him.

Fuck. A cloud of pain rises in the back of his throat. 

Stepping into a clean pair of boxers, hanging his wet towel on the back of the door. He steps to the foot of his bed, looking down at Mickey who is sound asleep. Curled up on his side facing the door, just like always. His beautiful face once again smeared in blood. 

Fuck, it hitches in his throat and stabs through his chest. Pulling the blankets off the bed, knowing sleeping on the floor will only make his ribs hurt more in the morning. But he doesn’t fucking care. Not right now. The only thing he cares about is wrapping that man in his arms. Holding him as close as he possibly can. Because he’s too much of a pussy to say the things that need to be said. So he’ll hold him instead. And hope that his thoughts and regrets can find their way to Mickey’s ears silently. Hope that his appreciation for his gesture of love can be transferred through his embrace. 

He doesn’t even grumble his dissatisfaction of being squeezed so tightly like he normally does. He doesn’t make any noise at all. He doesn’t shift or squirm his way further away. He’s deadweight in Ian’s arms. But Ian can feel him breathing, he can feel his heart beating slowly against his chest. He takes a deep breath of him, through the blood and beer and food that was all over the floor of the bar, he still smells it. He still smells like Mickey, his Mickey.

————

“And then I went all fucking bipolar on you and…”

“Stop,” he tries again, “yeah I came out for you but…”

“That’s exactly it! You came out for me! Not for yourself,” he springs to his feet suddenly. Pacing around in the small space of their shared bedroom, “That’s not how it’s supposed to be!”

His eyes pass by Mickey’s face when he turns to pace another length. The fucker is smirking. Ian’s about to blow a fucking gasket and Mickey is sitting there smirking. Reaching for his wrist when he goes past him again, face tilting up to tell him, “you know what Gallagher? Things don’t always happen the way they’re s’posed to in your perfect black and white world. The only thing I regret about coming out is not killing that asshole that night when I had the chance.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Well what the fuck were you picturin’? I’d sit down, take his hand, and say ‘Dad, I’m gay’, and he wouldn’t throw a fucking table and try to kill me?”

“Well, I…”

“Fuck you firecrotch. I ain’t your puppet. Pull a little fuckin’ string and I do what you want, you think that’s how it is? Huh?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But nothin’ fuckface. You remember the first time we hooked up?”

“Uh yeah,” stunned, thinking he could forget that.

“You come in my house and threaten me with a tire iron. Beat the hell out of each other and then fuck. Where in that could you possibly have thought I wanted fuckin’ hand-holding and steak dinners and moonlit strolls? Where in that could you possibly think I wanted somethin’ easy? Easy’s fuckin’ boring, man,” his hand is slowly dropping from Ian’s wrist into his hand, “yeah I wanted that. I wanted all of that. I wanted the fights and the fucks. And I wanted those stupid fucking dopey smiles while you talked about Westpoint and your future. I wanted those stupid corny queer jokes that made you laugh that stupid dopey fuckin’ laugh. I wanted to sit on the couch and debate which fuckin’ action star was most fuckable,” his fingers are rough but his touch is delicate as they slide between Ian’s, giving his hand a tug to pull him closer to his level. 

FUCK hand sliding across the back of Ian’s neck when he’s face to face, “I wanted you. And everything that came with you. However the fuck you got it in your head that we’d never been on a date, fuck you. We went on plenty of fuckin’ dates. Yeah maybe it was a stolen dinner out on the pitcher’s mound. Maybe it was an obstacle course at the abandoned buildings. Maybe it was runnin’ from the cops down an alley. Maybe it was a quick fuck in the dugout. But we aren’t exactly wine-and-dine kind of guys. That don’t mean I won’t do it if you want to,” he shrugs, “yeah we both made mistakes. But we were young and dumb and you’re s’posed to make mistakes when you’re young and dumb, and even after that. Can’t change any of the shit that already happened. We’ll make plenty more mistakes too. But it doesn’t matter. Only part that matters is that it’s together. That all the good times and bad, we do ‘em together,” a love tap on Ian’s cheek and a risen brow, “sound okay to you firecrotch?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, looking directly into that ocean in his eyes. It’s calm and inviting, “but one last thing.”

“Fuck,” releasing his grip with a sigh, “fine.”

Ian sits beside him now, reaching for his face, forcing his head to turn, eyes on his, “I’m sorry Mick.”

His eyes roll and he works his jaw a little while trying to decide his next move. Deny or accept? Pretend he has nothing to apologize for, pretend they’re even, pretend he wanted all that shit and doesn’t deserve an apology for it? 

Rolling it around on his tongue for a minute longer before he nods, “okay tough guy. I’m sorry too. Now can I get in the fuckin’ shower or you wanna suck my dick while my balls are still all sweaty and musty?”

“Put it like that…” but he’s not letting him get up without kissing him. He hasn’t let go of his face yet anyway. He’s met with no resistance. And this time, this time it’s slow, and open and the spark lights the fire. And the fire starts burning out of control quickly. And they’re crashing into each other, lips and tongues and teeth. And they’re acting like they’re both starving to death, like they’re both dying for the feel of heat and passion. And maybe they are. Maybe they have been for the time they’ve been apart. And maybe there’s no way to keep themselves alive anymore, and maybe it doesn’t fucking matter. Because if they’re dying in each other’s arms then they’re dying in the most perfect place either of them can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's out of Gallagher fashion to apologize for anything ever, or learn from past mistakes ever. But I don't give a shit anymore.   
> And I think I'm in the minority here in thinking that there wasn't some victory sex the night Mickey came out. Aside from the fact that fighting hurts and they'd both be exhausted, they would have both been emotionally taxed.   
> The morning Mickey woke up to Ian's depressive state having settled in, those bruises looked a couple days old, so I'm going to play a little later in this with Mickey's perspective on the day after he came out.


	27. Say Something Queer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting physical.

Say Something Queer

 

“Well it ain’t gonna suck itself,” sighing, falling into the pillows behind him in defeat, “stare at it much longer I’ll be asleep before you even put it in your mouth,” trying to stifle a yawn.

Fuckin’ prick’s been kissing on him for like an hour. Mouth, chest, neck, stomach. Everywhere. Thighs. Fuckin’ everywhere. But his dick. And his fuckin’ bastard of a dick is so hard it fuckin’ hurts and it’s starting to dribble out it’s excess fluids, twitching out of it’s skin and the fucker hasn’t even touched it yet. 

“I forgot,” he whispers, his chin indenting Mickey’s thigh where it’s resting.

“Forgot what fuckface? How to suck a dick? Step one: open your mouth…”

“I forgot how beautiful you are.”

“Fu…” cut off by the contact of his mouth. Just a tongue swirl of the tip and Mickey’s eyes are forcing themselves shut. His breath coming out hot and ragged. His hands searching for something to grasp. Anything. His right hand meets a head full of ginger hair as it’s owner sinks further down on his aching cock. His left hand finds a fistful of sheet beside him as he feels the back of Ian’s throat and Ian’s hand finally finds his fuckin’ balls. 

“Fuck,” straight shot right down that warm, wet throat. That fuckin’ quick.

And now that idiot is suctioning the last of it out with a laugh that vibrates his entire lower body. Popping off his cock with a grin, “what are you, like, fourteen?”

“Maybe,” he can’t help the smile that rises at the sight of Ian’s. Motioning him closer with a half nod, “I’ll do you in a minute. C’mere first.”

A little red flush rises, drowning out the remaining freckles on his cheeks, admitting with twinkling stars in his eyes, “you might be like fourteen, but I’m pretty sure I’m thirteen,” leaning over him, sliding a knee between Mickey’s and settling against him with the telltale wetness of a cum stain in his boxers and another laugh. 

“Why you even have those on?” laughing with him as he drags the dirty underwear off his butt, clamping down on his right cheek to grind him closer. 

“I have no idea,” they hit the floor when he kicks them off, making himself completely comfortable over Mickey’s body. Lingering close to his face but not going in for more kisses yet. 

He’s certain he’s watched that galaxy spin a hundred times before he finally wonders, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Stupid fuckin’ smile again, hand sliding down the side of his face and stopping in his hair. Knowing he wants to say something queer, like, “I love you.”

And maybe Mickey wants to say something queer also, like, “I love you too tough guy,” before their lips meet again. They linger. Slow and lazy. Until their jaws are aching and their lips are tender. And then they move, a gentle trail of lazy kisses right down the center of Mickey’s body. This time the first stop is his cock that’s just as hard as it was last time that idiot finally put it in his mouth. But this time he pulls away. This time that horny fucker isn’t going to get a chance to cum on himself. 

His brows are dipped in confusion as Mickey sits up, fog in his head but his goal clear, “lay down idiot. On your back.”

He shrugs, doing as he’s told. Fully expecting his own blow job, reciprocating afterwards. There was one time Ian asked him to do this. Mickey denied him, saying it was just too fucking queer. But now he wishes he could see that fuckin’ face, the surprised smile that’s bound to be rising as Mickey turns around, knees on either side of Ian’s head, elbows beside his hips as he lowers his face down to eagerly take that cock he loves in his mouth. Fuck, it’s hard as a rock and it feels perfect in Mickey’s mouth and this angle is even easier to take the whole length of it down. And feeling the mouth he loves taking his full length down at the same time is so much. It’s too much. And it takes maybe a minute before they’re both spilling down each other’s throats in perfect synch. And laughing as Mickey flops over to his side on the mattress, Ian’s hand still between his legs, caressing an asscheek. Fuck, Mickey wants to tell him to go for it. Get on him, feel him inside. 

But they said they’d do this right this time. They’d take is slow. They’d break it all down and build it back up as something it never was before. And damn it, that goes for the physical shit too. They always had that part right but they never had that part right either. Immediately skipping over everything to just fuck. And the fucking was right. But after tonight, Mickey is certain the other shit is right too. It feels pretty fucking good. And fuck it, if Ian wants to 69, then sure, why the fuck not? It wasn’t that fuckin’ queer. And if it was that fuckin’ queer, well, Mickey just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. 

They’re either both too tired to move or they’re too busy staring at each other’s dicks starting to grow flaccid. But neither of them move. 

Suddenly he laughs, wondering, “you ever think, back in the day…”

“We’d be laying here staring at each other’s dicks?”

“With the door unlocked…”

“And not giving a fucking shit about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they still have some shit to work out. But I figure there's only so much time they can spend together without getting physical in some manner or another.


	28. Someone Else's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly an information dump - setting up some events for later chapters.

Someone Else’s Daughter

 

“Well what the hell do you do with lost kids ‘round here then?”

She grunts and shrugs. Not responding for long enough that it seems she’s not going to. Turning out of town towards the complex, bumpy dirt roads and nothing but dirt from here out. Ian is starting to think he might get used to this… sometime, somehow. But it doesn’t matter, Mickey is here and that’s what matters. Desert, jungle, tundra; doesn’t matter. It’s not a jail cell. 

“You sure in the fuck don’t make posters, or flash her picture around town,” she finally answers, “just another lost kid. Sure by now her family is either dead or sold. If anyone is lookin’ it’ll be cartel pricks anyway,” she turns her head to spit out the window, reaching over Mickey’s leg to shift gears, “house her ’til Doc finds her a family or a spot in the orphanage opens.”

“Orphanage?” tension rising immediately in Mickey’s body and voice, “you fuckin’ serious?”

Her head turns, tilting her aviators down to her nose to level him with her blue eyes that have seemed so dull lately, “I look serious?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, breaking eye contact to look ahead. 

Ian’s hand lands on Mickey’s thigh, giving a reassuring squeeze, “Doc knows everyone around here, feels like he knows everyone in the country. He’ll find a good fit for her.”

“Okay,” mumbling in that cranky Mickey way that means it’s time to shut the hell up. 

He watches out the window at the whirring scrub brushes, letting the hot air hit him fully in the face. Watching in the sideview mirror at the cloud of dust lingering behind them, “what were you guys in town for anyway?”

He feels Mickey shrug against his arm, “groceries.”

“Fuckin’ cartel pricks got a couple recruits. Scoutin’ ‘em,” Lou grumbles. 

“How’s it work?” suddenly realizing he’s never asked. He knows they fight for money, but the season was over before he moved to the complex. 

He’s not sure who’s grunt is less welcoming to conversation right now, but the drive is boring and he doesn’t want to make it in silence.

Finally it’s Lou who explains, “whole thing started as a way for neighbors to settle disputes. Some outsiders started filterin’ in with paid fighters. Didn’t take the cartel long to figure out it could be a serious cash cow. Started takin’ bets. Started auctioning off losing fighters. Depending on your handler it’s pretty well regulated. Rocky runs a tight ship. She don’t let her fighters be auctioned off to just anyone. The rules are clear, we ain’t prostitutes or slaves or any of that shit. More often than not it’s just some lonely old rich prick who wants a good lookin’ date for a dinner party. Handler sets minimum bids, sets ground rules. Break ground rules get banned from fights. Fights themselves are fairly similar to MMA in the States. No fish-hooking, no eye-gauging. No weapons. Guess they used to do a weapon round ‘bout a decade ago, got too messy. Some of the lower level fighters with shady handlers, they’re basically prostitutes, realized real quick they could lose first thing first round and make some decent change by offerin’ sexual shit,” she nudges Mickey a quick hard one in the ribs, “then there’s Eduardo…”

“Fuck off,” he growls at her. 

“Whatever, you know you love the attention,” she smirks, but it quickly turns into a frown when they come over a rise in the road. Just past the intersection ahead, the only intersection between the village and the complex. There’s a car stopped. A couple of federales searching the vehicle. Two women on their knees in the dirt with their hands up, “fuck that shit,” jamming the truck into park, “you fuckin’ drive. Straight home,” shoving her door open.

Mickey grabs her arm, “the fuck you doin’?”

“Those fat fuckin’ pigs are cartel sponsored pigs. They ain’t searchin’ that car for drugs or guns. And they don’t get to have these ones,” one foot is out the door but Mickey hasn’t let her arm go yet, “don’t you dare fuckin’ follow me. You both,” dropping her sunglasses to glare at him, “are wanted by US agencies. These fucks find that out, they’ll have a fuckin’ field day with you. You head straight fuckin’ home. Now.”

“You ain’t doin’ this alone,” he tries.

“I ain’t alone,” she winks before replacing her glasses, sliding a blade out from behind her belt with a shrug, “got about three friends with me,” turning on her heal. Over her shoulder, “go home. Right fuckin’ now. Don’t come back.”

She’s shouting something in Spanish as she strolls towards them, looking like she hasn’t a care in the world. Left hand behind her back motioning for them to just go.

“Fuck,” Mickey’s breath shakes, “fuck.”

“Yeah,” is all Ian can offer right now. As far as friendship is concerned, they should be getting out, they should have her back. No matter the consequences. But, fuck, the consequences are pretty fucking real and pretty fucking complicated if this goes sideways.

“Fuck,” through clenched teeth as she motions once more to them, and Mickey shifts the truck, “fuckin’ bitch,” he grunts.   
Ian watches in the mirror after they make their right turn towards home. Watches as her first step is to slash tires on the police car, the whole scene disappears through the cloud of dust. But he can hear shouting, praying he won’t hear a gunshot. Praying they can get back to the complex in time to tell them what’s happening. Tell them before she gets herself killed for the sake of these women that she doesn’t even know. 

————

“They’ll bring her back?! What the fuck is that s’posed to mean?!” his hands are flinging around between them like punctuation to his shouted questions, “they’ll bring her back?! Will it be in a body bag?!” hollering at the old lady in English.

She keeps answering him in Spanish. Holding her ground, not flinching, not dropping eye contact even though his anger is bubbling, a pot about to boil over.

“They’ll bring her back mi hijo,” Martin’s old-man hands come down to squeeze Mickey’s shoulders, “they always do.”

With that, both of them walk away. Leaving Ian and Mickey standing in the yard. Mickey’s jaw clenched, chewing hard on the inside of his cheek. Hands in fists at his side. Eyes burning. Leaving a friend behind is not in Mickey’s fibers. 

Ian’s hands shoved in his pockets, becoming a spectator as Mickey paces back and forth in the dirt. Anything he says right now will just stir that boiling pot, so he doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to comfort. Just stands there silently, eyes shifting between Mickey and the road. Hoping to spot something, any sign of incoming. 

————

“Fuck,” grumbling as he sits down heavily after dinner at the outdoor table. Rocky and Martin both reminded him that they’ll bring her back. Probably before nightfall. But it doesn’t seem to be making a difference. Ian can see the wheels turning, grasping at straws to make some kind of plan. But what the fuck would they do? Go to the jail? Go to the feds? Go to the cartel?

“Jesus, fuck,” finally a cloud of dust approaching. He jumps to his feet so hard the chair tips over backwards in the dirt, “someone’s here!” shouting towards the main house, stalking towards the expensive SUV turning into the complex. 

Ian follows directly behind him, prepared to hold him back if need be. Two muscle-heads get out on the passenger side, driver stays seated and ready at the wheel, a tall handsome man in expensive clothing gets out. He scans the buildings, then Mickey and Ian, his eyes finding and remaining on the old couple making their way over. He nods his greetings, announcing something in Spanish to which Rocky responds. 

Then he leans in the back seat. Reaching as he’s speaking, a smile spreading on his face as he pulls her out of the car by the arm. Looks like she took a nightstick to the face, but it didn’t wipe the smirk off. Her hands are bound behind her back, blood dried on the front of her shirt, probably from her nose. 

Conversation happening in Spanish. Ian has picked up a handful of words and phrases, but these two are talking so quickly it’s useless to attempt keeping up with them. The man seems content with whatever Rocky tells him, jerking Lou by the arm in front of him, nodding at one of the muscles. He cuts the ties behind her back, but doesn’t release her wrists from his grip just yet.  
The man in charge turns to look at her, stepping in close to her face, “I like you Louise. I like your spirit,” caressing the side of her face menacingly as she holds her uninterested smirk, “but every spirit can eventually be crushed,” his thumb meeting the open gash on her cheekbone and pressing until she finches, “last warning. Next time, you get sent home in pieces.”

With that the muscle shoves her hard towards the group of them. She turns quick, like she’s going to go back at them. But between the two of them, they hold her back. 

“Don’t dig your own grave,” Mickey tells her firmly. 

The guy says something to Rocky as he gets back in the car. They stand there, all five of them, until the vehicle has long disappeared on the horizon. She jerks out of their grip with a laugh, “totally worth it,” snickering before she starts towards the main house. 

Rocky and Martin bickering back and forth like parents of a teenager who has been acting out. 

“Let me look at your face,” Ian calls out, finding his feet and moving after her quickly.

“Fuck no. Ain’t nothin’ a bottle of tequila won’t fix.”

————

“You gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?”

Half the bottle gone, nighttime surrounding them. Head tipped back in the chair, looking skyward as she smirks, “you gettin’ all attached to me pretty boy? Think I needed savin’ or something?”

“No,” he grumbles it towards the table, but it’s not very convincing.

Her legs rise, boots landing squarely on the table, crossed at the ankles as she leans even further back. There’s a dark stain suspiciously blood colored on the toe of the right boot. A lighter sparks. She takes three slow drags before handing the joint over to Mickey, exhaling the sweet cloud of weed with each word, “fuck power. Fuck the cartel. Fuck the fear.”

“Yeah and apparently fuck your own life?”

She shrugs, “once you lose a child, there ain’t a thing that can make life worth keepin’. Thing is, I’m fuckin’ sick of it. The power structure. The money preying on the poor and starved. The corrupt preying on the innocent. Ain’t a fucking thing I can do to get my daughter back, but if I can get someone else’s daughter back then it’s worth my life. Fuck if I care about the blood and the pain and the threats. Antonio knows all I got is my life. He knows he already took the only part that mattered. He can start with a finger, a hand, an arm. Whatever the fuck he wants to send to Rocky in boxes. Don’t matter.”

“What happened to her?” his voice is low, apprehensive.

“Casualty of a turf war. Sure you ain’t strangers to that shit. Wrong place, wrong time,” her right arm straightens from behind her head, reaching for the hem of her blood-stained shirt. Lifting to reveal the bullet scar they’ve both seen plenty of times but never asked, “right through me like I wasn’t even there. Shit part is, if I hadn’t been standin’ there, if I hadn’t slowed it down, probably would have been enough to kill her instantly. ‘Stead of dying from a slow internal bleed that could have been stopped with the right equipment in the right hands.”

There’s a blankness creeping in as she’s talking. That place people go when the things that are too hard to think about are circling their minds like vultures around carrion. 

Silence surrounds them for a long time until she reaches for the bottle, taking a long swallow before it clangs against the tabletop and she sits up straight, “fuck it. I ain’t training this week. We’re resort bound tomorrow mornin’. I’ll get a hold of Doc, tell him you ain’t comin’ in for the rest of it. Ready before noon,” she orders, getting to her feet. Before she can walk away, Mickey’s hand rises, grasping quickly for hers. She doesn’t resist it, or pull away. But she doesn’t offer any eye contact either. At the contact of his skin her shoulders lose some tension. A heavy sigh parts her lips and she nods, gathering some strength from her training partner before leaving them with a parting shot of, “I’ll even get us two rooms this time. Might want to pack some lube lover boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's absolutely out of character for either Ian or Mickey to leave a friend behind in that type of situation, but they're both wanted men so they still need to protect themselves from law of all sorts. 
> 
> I haven't decided if any backstory on Rocky and Martin is important for this fic or not. She was originally the daughter of a cartel leader, she was trained by him to take over, but then she found out a dirty little secret about him and killed him. Which wouldn't make much sense for this fic, but I also am not sure if any backstory whatsoever is important for them. We just know that they train fighters, house, and feed them while also opening their land as a rest-over for people fleeing to the States.


	29. A Caged Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting comfortable on the beach.

A Caged Heart

 

He takes a deep breath of salty, warm ocean air. Throws an arm over Mickey’s shoulder and buries his face in the man’s neck. 

It’s not hard to relax here. No alcohol, no drugs necessary. Well, maybe he had a few sips of Mickey’s cute little pineapple umbrella drink that looks so fucking queer he couldn’t help but laugh when the waiter brought it over. Lounge chair in the shade of a palm tree, the ocean waves crashing the shore. The sound of people at their backs and playing children at their fronts. They tried the adult’s only section first, but it was full. So they ended up here, which isn’t so bad. It’s high tourist season, probably coinciding with a holiday break in the States. And Lou actually used money and a real (fake) ID this time instead of conning their way in, which was surprising enough, adjoining rooms available too. It’s like Christmas. Wait, “is it Christmas?”

“Sure as fuck hope not,” his voice rumbles against Ian’s chest. 

“Why?” leaning into his head, taking a soft inhale of his salted hair. He wasn’t kidding, he learned how to swim. And he looks fucking sexy doing it too.

“‘Cause if it is, then my Christmas card home’ll be late. And I didn’t get you anything.”

“What? You send mail? How do you not get…”

“Connections. Probably should’ve told you, huh? You want to send mail home?” now his head turns, leaning out against Ian’s shoulder to look him in the eye, “I didn’t even think about it, I guess. But you probably want to…”

“No. Actually. I don’t. Not yet. I mean, I guess I should let them know I’m alive,” he shrugs, “but I don’t want them thinking they should come find me. They’ll just think I’ve gone Monica, they’ll try to get me to come home if they think…”

“You think they think you’re dead or somethin’? They know you took off man. Might as well ease their worries by lettin’ ‘em know you’re good. The mail can’t be tracked. So it ain’t like they’re gonna find you.”

“Should I? I mean what if…”

“Only place it can be tracked to is California if anyone wanted to spend the money on a PI or somethin’. You and I both know there ain’t a single Southie who’ll rat us out and give the feds a whiff of our scent. And there probably ain’t a single Southie who can afford a PI to track down your bipolar ass and drag you home to face your crimes,” he smirks. 

Now his mind is starting to spin. A little bit, just an image, just a conversation, the one he keeps coming back to. The one that feels like the biggest betrayal, “is that how your dad knew you were in Mexico?”

“My dad?”

“Yeah,” his stomach is starting to clench. ‘I did the raping. Milkoviches don’t bottom’. 

“I don’t send mail to my fuckin’ dad.”

“I know. I know that, I…” fuck. ‘Was Mickey adopted?’ Fuck. He swallows hard but it’s not working, “Mandy? You ever send anything to Mandy? Or Iggy, or…”

“Nah. I don’t know where Mandy is. My brother’s can’t fuckin’ read,” he snickers.

“The house. Anything to the old house? I mean, why does, why does your dad know?”

“Fuck if I know.”

‘Was Mickey adopted?’ Fuck. His head is still turned, his face maybe an inch away from Ian’s. Fuck, he’s so beautiful. And fuck, Jesus, fuck. Why the fuck, why would he go to that monster? Why would he speak to that monster? Why would he stand there and make a fucking joke about Mickey to that monster? Make a bitch joke. 

“I shouldn’t’ve let you have any, huh?” concern furrowing his brow, he’s talking about the booze. But, no, he shouldn’t have let him have any. Any of it. Any of his love. Ian never deserved it.

“I don’t deserve you,” he hears himself mumble, half-whispered and half-shaken, he feels tears escaping his eyes and he feels himself hide his face in Mickey’s shoulder. 

“The fuck you talkin’ about Gallagher?” he starts shifting, like he’s going to get up, or leave. He should. He should get up and leave. They’ve been sitting here for most of the afternoon. The heat of the sun off the ocean’s surface too much. They found a spot in the shade. There was only one open chair, but Mickey didn’t have any qualms whatsoever about settling his perfect ass between Ian’s knees and leaning back. Leaning back against him like they weren’t two fags sharing a lounge chair. And it has felt so fucking good. And finally feels so fucking free. Free, the way it should feel. 

And fuck, now he’s spinning out and ruining it, “I knocked on the door Mick. For your dad. I knocked on the door to talk to your dad. Your piece of shit dad. I talked to him. Him. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just…”

“About what?” he wonders gently.

“About prison. About what it’s like. About all the… like I don’t know anyone else who’s done time?! What the fuck is wrong with me?!”

“Stop,” he sighs, “take a breath.”

He does. A deep breath. Against Mickey’s bare skin. But it doesn’t help. 

“You actually wanna know what’s wrong with you tough guy? Do you?” nudging with his elbow, his head is turned, he’s waiting for eye contact. Ian can’t yet. And that’s not going to stop Mickey. Turning his body, taking Ian’s chin in his hand, tilting it up and waiting. Waiting until he blinks, focuses, takes a deep breath.

“You know what’s wrong with you?” eyebrows raised, eye contact steady, “absolutely fuckin’ nothing,” releasing his chin to wipe off his cheeks. He doesn’t even take the bait, doesn’t even call him out for being a bitch. Forehead meeting forehead, hand stroking through his hair. Deep breath, “I love you.”

Holy fuck, it tingles. It tingles down, up, and across every single inch of Ian’s body, “I love you too,” the same as every time it’s ever been said between them.

————

“Well ain’t we so cute over here?” she smirks as she nears. Her legs are garnering the attention of every straight man on the beach, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or give a fuck. She doesn’t stop moving until she’s straddling the chair, squatting down to plant her butt between Mickey’s knees. Setting two more drinks on the table beside them before she removes the joint from behind her ear and sparks it up. Passing it back and forth in silence, she blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, away from Ian’s face with a slow appraisal of him. Finally wondering, “what do ya think love? Livin’ like kings ain’t so bad, huh? Wearin’ enough sunscreen on the freckled ass? We gonna check out the nude beach later? Go hit the Hedonism club, watch some strangers fucking each other?” she snickers, taking a long toke. Tossing one leg over them both to cross her ankles at the arm rest, letting herself fall backwards until her head is in the sand. 

“It’s not bad,” he finally answers. 

She is high as a kite, “you guys fuckin’ yet?”

Mickey half-chokes on the liquid in his mouth and Ian laughs a, “no.”

“Hmm,” toes tapping against his arm. She’s very forward but somehow not intrusive about it, “what the fuck you waitin’ for?”

The silence that follows is a telltale, no one knows anymore. Ian won’t complain about all the head, Mickey suddenly so into 69ing, he doesn’t want to bring sex into it and ruin that part. Thinking it’ll be just like always, just a quick rushed fuck where they can both pretend they don’t matter to each other. He wants to take his sweet time and drink in every single part of Mickey’s body, but doubts Mickey will let him.

“I can take a ‘fuck off’ any day,” she laughs, “you used to tell me to fuck off all the time. Goin’ soft and gooey on the inside pretty boy?”

“Fuck I don’t know. Maybe,” he admits with a sigh. His head tilting back, leaning against Ian’s shoulder as he watches the blue hazy line where the ocean meets the sky.

“You know what I think?”

“I care what you think?”

“Think you do. I think since I ain’t fuckin’ anybody. You should be fuckin’ enough for the three of us.”

“You wanna fuck somebody? We can go to a club tonight,” Ian offers, “I can handle that scene without losing my mind. I’ve…”

“No way love,” her toes press into the flesh of his arm, “you got things to do tonight. People to do. Person to do. Pretty boy to do. Do it. But before that, you should lift that foot off your arm and rub the shit out of the arch. I mean I did pay for this weekend and all, so…”

So he does, “you only paid for it because you refused to let us,” he reminds her.

She grunts something, foot already starting to go lax in his hands. Doesn’t take long before she’s limp with sleep, sprawled half in the sand, half across Mickey’s lap. He sighs after awhile, “gotta piss. Gettin’ hungry. Haul her back to bed, shower off, hit the buffet.”

Mickey’s up and loading her over his shoulder before Ian can even get to his feet. Hustling after his little thug across the white ocean sugar sand as he doesn’t struggle in the slightest under the length of her frame. Fuck, she’s probably right. They should be fucking. They should be fucking every single chance they get. What the hell is stopping them now?

Fuck, maybe the fact that Mickey drops to his knees in the shower and gives Ian the best head he’s ever received. Maybe that. Or maybe the fact that he’s hungry and he’ll get crabby if they take the time to fuck before dinner. And after dinner, he slides his fingers into Ian’s and cocks his head towards the beach. They walk in silence for a long time, an easy carefree stroll. Feet getting soaked by the waves reaching up the shore. Returning to their own resort beach when the sun starts to sink in the sky. Stopping to sit in the dry sand, stretching their legs out into the water. 

Fucking doesn’t have to be important. This right here, sitting here next to each other, watching the sunset over the ocean, this is important. ‘Us. The beach’. It’s happening. It’s real. And it’s fucking incredible. Looking over at Mickey, at his face as the light of day starts to fade. The delicacy of his features, the perfection of his skin, the sparkle in his eyes. Sure, the Caribbean is pretty cool, but the ocean that is Mickey Milkovich is the only ocean that matters. It’s the most expansive, expressive, and exciting one in the world. 

He feels a smile taking over his face, Mickey turns with his signature cocky smirk, “fuck you lookin’ at Gallagher?”

Taking his chin in his fingers, leaning in. ‘Us. The beach’. It couldn’t be more real. And it couldn’t feel more perfect. Letting this moment linger. Letting every single sense be filled with Mickey. Mickey only. 

Interrupted by a scream. Blood-curdling scream. Making them both jump to their feet. The first-responder training engrained in his mind taking over. The Southside in Mickey taking over, ready for fight or flight. Then something completely different takes over. He bolts past Ian and into the ocean. Swimming hard and fast towards the young teen bleeding in the water by rock outcroppings. She’s wearing a life-vest but she’s face-down in the water, the jet-ski she was riding on smashed into the rocks. 

People on the beach are scrambling, some idiots have phones out to record this. Take charge of the scene. Now, “you,” pointing at a mid-twenties in blue swim trunks who looks fairly sober and in good shape, “go to the medical building. Bring someone back. Now!” raising his voice over the sounds of the crowd, “put the fucking phones down. Immediately. Human chain. Let’s do this. Now,” he can’t focus on Mickey right now. He can’t watch him, he can’t know if he’s struggling. If he’s struggling then everyone else be damned, Ian will be throwing himself in after his man. No matter the consequences. 

He stays on shore, directing enough people out into the ocean waves, grasping each other. Extending out towards the rocks. Now he takes the chance. Scanning between the rise and fall of the ocean’s surface. Finding that head of black hair, pulling strong and even, towing the unconscious teen with him. No signs of struggle, so close to the final person in line. So close. Ian’s heart is lodged in his throat, thudding hard in his ears. 

Holding his breath as he see’s Mickey’s hand appear from under the water, grasping for the final person in the chain, pulling hard and pushing the girl’s limp body towards shore. From there the human chain works just as beautifully as it’s supposed to. Working together to get her to the sand where Ian can get to work. An open head wound. Stabilizing her neck, checking for breath sounds. All of this comes as second nature. It’s easy and he remains calm. Completely calm. Doing everything step by step. By the book. Not stopping until two staff medics take over. Even then his body remains on auto-pilot, helping carry the backboard up the beach, spewing out all he can about the scene and everything about her vitals and responsiveness. His brain and body stay in synch, his mission is clear and he doesn’t leave medical until they’ve got her stable and are waiting on transport to a hospital. 

His first-responder training doesn’t crack or shift, nothing falls out of place until he makes it back to their room in a blur. And is met with the ocean gaze that he easily could have lost today. Not a word is spoken. Making the strides to each other, taking Mickey’s face in his hands, tilting his head back to scan him over. Study his every feature. Make certain there’s no pain, or discomfort, or anything even slightly off in his gaze even after Mickey nods at him. The nod conveying that he’s perfectly fine, but Ian needs to see it to believe it. 

When he finally sees it, he leans in. Not holding back. Adrenaline, passion, lust, built up and pent up. Flowing now, a dam breaking. Met with equal parts from his partner. Lips, tongues. Hands. Skin. Bare, soft, smooth. It burns. Every single inch of his flesh burns against Ian’s fingertips. Leaving smoldering red coals beneath his flesh. Igniting a flame in his chest that spreads through every part of his body. 

Auto-pilot again, reading this man’s body like there was never a time when it wasn’t under his hands, against his lips, wrapped around his hips and shoulders. Like there was never a time that he wasn’t breathing harshly against Ian’s neck, that he wasn’t grunting a soft affirmation of being ready into his jaw before leaving a smoldering trail of kisses across his skin. Like there was never a time that his hands weren’t pressing hard against Ian’s butt as he slowly guides himself inside his body. Pressing for more, for all of it, for every single instance of flesh on flesh. Like there was never a moment when his eyes weren’t feverish with lust and glazed with passion, looking up at Ian from the pillow cradling his head in the most heavenly vision Ian’s ever seen. 

Auto-pilot’s gone. This needs to be felt. It needs to be lived with every single sense as clearly as possible. He takes a deep breath, leans forehead to forehead, tilts his pelvis far enough to bottom out, to give him every single part he’s asking for as his breath quakes. Body growing tense around Ian’s he pulls back slowly, gently. Wanting so badly to draw this out, take the rest of the night like this. Connected physically in every way possible. Connected emotionally in ways they’ve never achieved before. Connected spiritually like they never spent a moment apart. 

And maybe they didn’t. Maybe there was always a part of Mickey that was right there next to Ian all this time. Maybe the part of him that lived in his mind, remaining there stubbornly even when Ian tried his hardest to push him out. Maybe a part of him was left under Ian’s skin, burned through his flesh from the tips of his fingers. Climbing, twisting, and caging itself around Ian’s heart, keeping a part of it locked under his influence and control for every single beat and every single breath, every single thought since that very first moment of contact. That very first flash of flesh on flesh. That very first spark of eye contact. And that very first lightning bolt that destroyed his soul for the taking by anyone else. 

————

“I want to feel that,” he whispers against Mickey’s mouth as he presses inside of him for the third round. The way his eyes get wide just before they plaster themselves shut, as a gasp escapes his lips and his head falls back.

“Feel what?” eyes opening, instantly annoyed with being interrupted. 

“That. I want to feel what you just felt.”

“Well you can’t feel your own cock like that Gallagher.”

He chortles, “you Mick.”

Expecting resistance. He’s surprised with a slow nod, “whenever you want firecrotch.”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow it is. Now get movin’ before I lose interest.”

“Yeah, okay Mickey,” as though that’s possible, smiling as he meets his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, they're banging again. I mean, really, it was about time. But we're still going to talk some stuff out, now that they've opened some dialogue they'll keep that up.
> 
> I think everyone has/has had that one friend that says whatever the hell they feel like saying, and has a habit of touching you but it's somehow not intrusive. That'd be Lou. And she's pretty much always high or drunk or both.
> 
> The water rescue - first off I don't condone water rescues of any kind without proper life guard training. Second - this will become an impactful event for their relationship aside from breaking the physical ice between them and getting them reunited between the sheets. Will be revealed soon...


	30. Two Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doing a good deed backfire?

Two Options

 

There were two chairs open. Two of them. But Mickey didn’t seem to give a shit. Plopping himself down between Ian’s legs with a sigh. They spent half the morning trying to fend off people congratulating them on the big save yesterday. No one has any news on the girl yet. 

It’s gone quiet. Lunch time. It’s a little cloudy today but no threat of rain. Enough to keep some people off the beach and huddled around the pool instead where there are games being played. Lou signed them up for some kind of excursion tomorrow, something that includes zip-lining, Ian is having a hard time picturing Mickey doing that, but he seemed open to the idea. 

There are weird nerves balling up in Ian’s gut off and on all morning. He’s blaming it on the promised bottoming later. Knowing now that it hurts for awhile at first, and he’s never hurt in any way when it comes to Mickey. It seems like hurting during sex with him will tarnish it somehow. And Mickey’s dick is a hell of a lot bigger than that cock of Trevor’s. 

Mickey seems to be sensing the concern, making extra gestures of affection all morning. Or maybe it’s the weird attention they’ve both garnered making them uneasy. Two guys hiding from the law, they don’t need the attention. It wasn’t done for attention anyway. 

“Shit,” Mickey curses under his breath, his stance strengthening like a shield between Ian and an approaching stranger. Muscles tensing, ready for a fight but his face remains a mask of calm.

The guy is average height, fairly well built, salt and pepper hair. And he’s just got that fucking look. Shit. 

Part of him wants to cover Mickey’s chest, an identifying mark. Part of him wants to shove Mickey to his feet, take his hand, and take off running. Part of him just wants to puke. And a tiny part of him wants to put his hands up, turn himself in. Fuck that part.

Mickey nods a calm greeting nod as the guy sits on the edge of the chair beside them. Facing their direction, he can feel the guy’s discerning gaze on both of them through the lenses. His hair is short, nearly within regs of a military cut. His facial hair is short, well-groomed. Navy Seal Trident on his chest, tattooed in black ink. 

Shit. This is all adding up to government agent. 

“Remain calm,” hands out between them, palm down. Reading Mickey’s clear body language past his unimpressed expression, “I know who you are. Both of you. What I want you to know is who I am. My name is Aaron McCarthy. I’m an agent with the FBI. That girl you rescued yesterday. That is my daughter. She’s doing just fine. Mild concussion and a healthy fear of jet-skis now,” he half-smiles. And receives nothing in return. A deep breath, “thing is, if you hadn’t acted quickly she probably would have drowned. Judging by the youtube video I had removed last night, she was unconscious face-down in the ocean with a bleeding head wound. Thank you.”

Ian feels himself nod, just slightly. But nothing happens vocally.

“Tough nut to crack Milkovich. Heard that about you,” he sighs, “alright. Here’s the deal. I owe my daughter’s life to you two. You two are wanted by the US government. I’m US government. You can see I’m between a rock and hard place. I’m on what was supposed to be a nice relaxing family vacation. I don’t want to work. I’m tired of work. I have no desire to haul you two back to the States and fill out weeks worth of paperwork and waste my time processing, questioning, getting inside the mind of a guy who figured out how to break out of prison, or a guy who started a small religious movement. I don’t care, is the thing. You are both small fish in a criminal world of huge sharks. I believe you’ve had run-ins with some of the huge sharks back in Chicago’s correctional system,” tipping his head towards Mickey. Who still does nothing.

“Alright. Two options. We call it even. You saved my daughter. I pretend we never met. But that doesn’t stop someone else from hauling you in next time. The second option is this: I don’t believe for one second that you’ve been in Mexico for a year and a half and haven’t had dealings with cartels Milkovich. You get me an in, maybe I clear your records.”

“Fuck would I believe that for?” 

“Monitoring social media and taking down the videos of yesterday’s save before they can be viewed - show of good faith.”

“Or protecting your daughter’s image.”

“That too,” he admits, “how about the fact that I haven’t cuffed you already? Or called in for back-up? Or just called the Federales? They’d love to get a hold of people like you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Alright. Your choice,” he gets to his feet, “I’ll be here until Monday. If you change your mind,” nodding at them.

“Yo McCarthy,” Mickey calls as he starts stepping away, “glad your daughter’s okay.”

“Me too Milkovich. Me too.”

————

“Shit. Fuck. Shit,” pacing back and forth across the marbled floor of their room, “fuck. Fuck,” fingers rising to his eyes, “we gotta pack our shit and get out of here. Get Lou. We gotta go. Say our goodbyes to Rosa and fuck off.”

“No,” he tries, calming himself back far enough to sit on the edge of the bed, “no we don’t Mick. You heard him, right? If he wanted to take us in, we’d be in cuffs already. Come on, he was being serious. Hey,” reaching out and grabbing his hand when he walks past him again, “let’s sit on this for a minute. Alright? It’s not like he’d need back-up to bring us in. Cuff one of us, he knows the other wouldn’t go anywhere. He’d have us both with one set of cuffs,” he smiles, reaching for his hip to turn him, “look at me Mick.”

Begrudgingly it happens with a scoff, “you don’t know he ain’t waitin’ for back-up right now.”

“Like I said, he had us if he wanted us. If he didn’t realize it by reading our records, then he definitely realized it when he walked up on us lookin’ like a couple of queers in a lounge chair,” he grins and it breaks some of the tension on Mickey’s face, “they won’t be banging on our door tonight Mick. That guy seemed honest.”

“Fuck Gallagher, you’re gullible. They all seem honest when they want something from you.”

“Then we have until the end of the weekend to make up our minds, right? If he wants something from us, he won’t take us in yet.”

“What are you thinkin’ firecrotch? You wanna help this guy? You wanna get in with cartel shit, end up in a body bag? It won’t matter if he clears your record, you’ll be in witness protection if you manage to get out alive of whatever mess he gets you in.”

“No. That’s not what he was asking either. If they want to get in with a cartel, they aren’t going to insert untrained informants or some shit. They’ll want their own agents in there. They’ll want people who are trained. They just need an in. Right? That’s what he was asking for. You could get them an in. Talk to Lou, bring in a new fighter, they can play it by themselves from there.”

“It ain’t that easy tough guy.”

“No? Well that’s their problem. They just need an undercover agent to penetrate the system.”

“Penetrate? Now we’re talkin’,” eyebrow cocked with a smirk rising. 

“We get busted tonight, it’ll be while you’re balls deep in my ass,” grabbing for both hips and dragging him closer, pulling him down to the bed with him. Chest to chest, smile to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing about dicks: don't judge it when it's flaccid, and not all boners are created equal. So fuck Terry and Svetlana for the small dick comments about Mickey. I know, I know it's not the size of the boat it's the motion of the ocean or whatever the fuck. But seriously, did either one of them think his erection would be impressive when he's getting raped at gun point? I have my doubts.


	31. I Give A Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Ian crack under the pressure?  
> Is McCarthy trustworthy?

I Give A Little

 

“The fuck you doin’ in there?” standing outside the bathroom door, trying to keep himself from just breaking it down, “you ain’t gotta force a shit out if you don’t gotta go. Don’t work that way Gallagher. You’ll end up with hemorrhoids and then no one’s gonna wanna fuck your ass.”

Nothing. He’s been in there for twenty minutes.

“Ian? You alright?” 

“Yeah,” but it sounds all thick and shaky.

“Yeah, okay. I’m comin’ in.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub. Face hidden in his hands. 

“Quite the crybaby lately, period about to start or what?”

Nothing. Not even a snort.

Stepping into the room, stopping in front of him. Hands through his hair. Mickey’s favorite length right now. A little long on top, little shaggy, little messy. The sun is doing some dimming of the deeper red hues, but it’s sexy. Leaning down to kiss the top of his head, taking a deep breath of the scent of his shampoo, “alright. Talk to me assface. You don’t wanna do this, I ain’t gonna make you.”

“That’s not it,” immediately, and cut off in his throat. 

“Hey,” dropping to his knees in front of him, hand sliding down his arm, finding his fingers. He’s not going to pry them off his face, but he’ll hang onto them, “so what’s the deal? You said you bottomed before, then you know it’s going to feel good.”

“After it hurts for awhile,” he mumbles.

“Huh? You think I’m just gonna shove the turkey in without preheating the oven first?”

“Well that’s… no. No, I just…”

“Look tough guy, I don’t give a shit if we switch things up. I like the way we do things.”

“I want to,” voice rising in anger, hands falling away from his face. A single dew drop on a green blade of grass. Mickey reaches out and smudges it away from his eye as it burns into his own, “I want to. And if we get taken in tonight, then I want to now. I don’t want to wait for another chance. If we end up… if that guy was lying, if we go to prison. It’s not like we’ll end up in the same joint, or the same cell, or the same sentence. It’s not like we’ll get another chance for what could be years or…”

“Okay, stop,” clamping down on his hands, “that’s a stupid fuckin’ reason to put pressure on yourself.”

“But you said it, he could just be…”

“He ain’t. Been thinkin’ about it. I’ll say it, I’ll just go ahead and say it as much as it hurts - you are right. He knew he could have had us earlier without backup, there’s no reason he’d wait. Give us a head start to take off. He was being honest. So just,” reaching out to touch his chin, “take that out of the equation. You don’t wanna bottom, don’t bother me. Just quit with the anxiety shit and get on me instead. Besides, if you’re doin’ it right, then it won’t hurt.”

His eye contact falters, a little blush creeping into his cheeks while he stares at the floor.

“Fuck, Ian, please tell me it wasn’t somethin’ you did just to make someone else happy, or get an old dude to buy you room service, or… fuck,” his eyes water at the thought, “please tell me it was consensual.”

“It was,” eyes rising, loaded with tears that are lingering, just building up in the corners and not spilling over.

They’re not going there. Not tonight. This isn’t about Mickey. Not right now. He takes a deep breath, getting to his feet, tapping Ian’s knee, “c’mon then.”

Mickey’s already got the TV on, lounged back on the bed, snacks out, waters open by the time he mopes his way out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s a Die Hard marathon on. Figured we’d spend the night just hangin’ out. No clubs, or sunsets on the beach, or water rescues, or worrying about Feds. Just hang out. If we had pizza pockets, this could be perfect,” his voice trails off a little. That night, that night was perfect. If the next morning never happened, it’s something they could probably think about without wanting to rip their skin off and run as far away from one another as possible, “I mean, no TVs on the complex, you gotta take the opportunity sometimes to just…” 

He’s cut off by that dopey smile appearing right in front of his face. Relief having rolled over him, pressure of his own making now gone. Leaning in, a little eager but quick. Settling in close, just close enough for their arms to brush up against one another every time they reach for refreshments. Fuck, it’s so much easier to just reach out now and grab him whenever Mickey wants, whenever the urge strikes. Not having to worry about what anyone else thinks, not caring anymore. He loves this big ginger dope. He always will and he doesn’t give a fuck who knows anymore. 

It only takes about a half hour before Lou’s voice is against the door between the rooms, sounding like her lips are right against the frame, “is that Die Hard I hear? You guys fuckin’ to it, or can I come over? I scored some M&M’s in a poker game earlier. I might be convinced to bring them with me,” she taunts.

“Pretty sure the door’s open bitch.”

“Well,” turning the knob, “there are a lot of things I’m cool with seeing, but walking in on you two banging the shit out of each other - literally - is something I’d probably never recover from.”

“Funny.”

“I thought so,” flinging herself down on the edge of the bed on Ian’s side. They didn’t tell her about the fed. She might have some solid input on what they could do, she definitely knows her way around the cartel shit more than either of them. 

But it feels pretty good to not talk right now. To just watch a movie they’ve all seen countless times until they’re too tired to think about any of the shit they should be thinking about. She’s passed out halfway through the second movie. Mickey’s near sleep halfway through the third when his head drops, meeting Ian’s shoulder and Ian wonders, “you ever miss it? Home?”

“Home?” he snorts. Ian is his home. Only one he’s ever had. But he realizes as he sighs again, the same can’t be said for Ian. 

“I mean, I don’t want to,” he pauses, thinking it over for a moment. 

Mickey was wondering if the emotional shit lately was due to an imbalance in his meds, but he’s starting to realize it’s homesickness, “yeah. I miss it,” he interrupts, “parts of it.”

“I mean, I don’t miss most of it. Things are simpler here, in some ways. And my job, it’s really fulfilling. More than I’d probably ever have in Chicago. I didn’t really have friends anymore by the time I left. But my siblings, it’s just… it’s weird not being able to call them at least. Not that I,” his hand finds Mickey’s in his lap, entwining their fingers, “not that I want to move back if we did take that guy up on his offer. Not that the offer is even… I don’t know. We’d need a lot more information. I, um, I feel more,” turning his head to press his lips against Mickey’s hair, “I feel more free here,” half-laugh, “it’s nice to start things off with a clean slate. And it feels like we have so much more potential to keep our shit together without all the old shit chasing us. It’s been easy so far to keep my disorder under control and I guess it’s the first time I’ve even accepted it. And us, I like the way things are going, there’s no pressure, no judgment, no feeling like we need to hide. That feels good. I just,” his hand is clamped pretty tight on Mickey’s, like he’s expecting him to freak out or something, “it’d be nice to be able to visit for a weekend or a holiday or something.”

“I hear ya firecrotch,” there’s still so much to figure out. But he knew this would happen, he knew it the first time they made the trip to the border. He knew that Ian would never be able to leave his family behind forever. Lifting his hand to his lips, “now shut the fuck up, I was almost asleep.”

“Okay,” nuzzling his nose into Mickey’s hair, taking a long whiff of him like he always does. Whatever the fuckin’ sense memory crap is, ginger’s always been a sniffer. Fuckin’ weirdo.

————

The sound of the door latching shut gently filters into his sleeping mind. Eyes darting open, body ready for the incoming rush of feds. Or Russian pricks. Or Terry. He’s not even sure. 

The door comes into focus quickly as blood rushes to his ears, no one. A quick scan of the bed proves it was Lou leaving the room. Not someone entering.

“Fuck,” whispering as the sound of the TV still on breaks into his senses. The feel of Ian sleeping behind him. Fuck, it’s been awhile since he’s woken up that way. Ready to fight, or to brace, or to protect his head. Whatever the moment called for.   
Sitting up with a clear thought in his mind. Taking a moment to run a hand across Ian’s face, stroking his hair away from his forehead. He could watch this fucker sleep forever. Not that he wants to, only the appropriate amount of time, not for weeks on end. Unmoving, unblinking. Barely breathing. 

Fuck, getting to his feet quickly. He leaves a note, knowing he’ll sleep for another hour. He was right about his schedule, aside from the occasional late night he’s awake like clockwork, same time every morning. With his annoyingly cheery morning face, preparing for a run, waiting in the yard for Mickey to join him. Nah, he’s never going to let that idiot go off on his own in the desert. Some mornings Lou comes with them, mostly just to pull ahead of them and then run twice the distance most likely with a snout full of coke. She’s a freak of nature even without the coke-fueled distance runs. Fuck her. Keeping up with two long-legged freaks of nature would have been more than Mickey could chew back in the day, but without the cigarettes and shitty food, without the heavy drinking; he’s found that his body is much more reactive than it ever was. It’s not just a sprint from the cops anymore, and he’s grown to enjoy it. Being out in the open air, mostly alone with his thoughts. The occasional chatter back and forth, but mostly silence. Just the rhythm of each other’s breaths, footfalls in the dirt and rock. 

He takes a seat, being certain to have at least three escape routes mapped out. Taking note of how many people are in the courtyard, how many waiters. Take a deep breath, watching McCarthy’s every move as he makes his way over. Keeping his posture relaxed even though his heart has made it’s way to his ears and his stomach has started to descend very quickly to his butt. He wanted to do this alone, knowing he’s the one with the fatter record, the bigger offense. If nothing else, he can turn himself in to protect Ian. Firecrotch was right about him not having back-up. If he had back-up it would have made itself obvious by now. These fuckin’ feds. 

He nods just slightly when the guy sits, “Milkovich. Coming to your senses?”

He shrugs, keeping his gaze disinterested. 

“Thinking about you kept me up all night, I…”

“Yeah. His pretty little ass has that effect on people,” her voice comes from behind him. Fuck, that sneaky bitch. How the fuck did he not see her?

“Brought back-up?” McCarthy eyes her as she makes herself comfortable at the table. Setting three coffees down like this was planned. He accepts the drink with a nod, “Aaron McCarthy,” extending his hand.

She snorts, “that ain’t happening,” tipping back in her chair, boots meeting the table top, ankles crossed.

“Alright, well. Shall we get to it then? I take it this meeting means you’re considering option two. I know you aren’t stupid. I know you’re thinking I want to throw you to the wolves. Get you involved with cartel business and snitch. That’s not what I want. I want,” he stops to take a sip. Closing his eyes and admitting, “goddamn, that’s good coffee. Guy could get used to this, couldn’t he Milkovich? Among other things. I suppose the perks of Mexico are much loftier than the perks of a prison cell. If there are perks to a prison cell.”

“Alright, get the fuck on with it.”

He smiles, it’s genuine, “I grew up in Baltimore. Can leave the shithole, but the shithole never quite leaves you, does it? I saw my way out with military, knew I’d end up dead on the street otherwise. Then I deployed, saw shitholes that made Baltimore look like fuckin’ paradise. Saw shit over there, man, some of that shit just won’t ever let go. And some of the shit around here, it’s just not much different. Cartels left unchecked by government. Innocent people taking the brunt of the damage. You’ve seen it?”

A six year old girl with a brand burned into the flesh of her thigh. Yeah. He’s seen it.

“Gotta give you credit. Southside Chicago. Dead mom, father in and out of lock-up. So maybe the freedom to return isn’t something that matters to you. But your partner…”

“Fuck off. This ain’t about him. I make a deal with you, he don’t get involved in the process. His record gets wiped clean before I even agree to anything.”

“Oh,” surprise on his face, “okay, tough bargain. I get it. What I’m asking you is…”

“Possibly a fuckin’ death sentence. Even if I don’t get involved directly. I give an agent a foot in the door, they go down that means I go down with them. Fuckin’ Alvarez boys ain’t stupid, and they ain’t afraid of sending body parts home one by one in boxes.”

“Of that I am aware. Alright. Well a felony arson charge is pretty easy to get rid of. Seeing as the bail money was paid, the bounty on his head is,” he shrugs, “not enough to notch a bedpost over. But you, making a joke of the prison system. Now, no one in law enforcement takes too kindly to that.”

“Yeah well I don’t take too kindly to gettin’ my ass involved in cartel shit either, so…”

“I don’t need you in it. Guy like you, your background, drugs, guns, attempted murder. I guess I assumed you weren’t running an auto body shop down here. What do you do Milkovich, huh? What keeps a roof over your head in a place like Mexico?”

Same thing that always has, sheer willpower. But, “you don’t need to know that shit.”

“You might be missing the point of bargaining. I give a little. You give a little.”

“I already gave you a little. Daughter’s life. You give me Gallagher’s clean record. I’ll give you something. That how it work? Or did I miss a step?”

“You’re good,” he grins, seemingly loving this game. His head shakes but his hand extends, “same place, same time tomorrow.”

Meeting his handshake as he follows to standing. There’s a split second debate to offer a hand to Lou, but he decides against it. Nodding instead before he walks off. He waits until he’s well out of hearing range before he looks to her. Her position hasn’t changed, expression hasn’t given anything away. Shades hiding her eyes, but he feels them on him when he sits back down. 

Taking a long slow drink of coffee. McCarthy’s right about that. Can’t find anything like this in Chicago, even in those hipster whole bean organic GMO free whatever the fuck…

“Easy to get them an in,” she sighs, “if you want it. Won’t even get your hands dirty, won’t even be able to pin anything back to you. If we do it right.”

“Yeah. Just want him to think it’ll be some complicated process that’ll put us all in harm’s way.”

“Smarter than you look pretty boy. Smarter than you look,” her grin is wide and he’s certain the galaxy in her eyes is spinning wildly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's fair to say Ian had a shitty experience with Trevor. Sorry, but your partner shouldn't be saying 'ow', even if they're into pain then they wouldn't be saying 'ow' when they felt it. So either that was just a poorly written scene, or they actually were showing us that Ian isn't capable of clicking sexually with anyone other than Mickey. There were certain aspects of Caleb that I was okay with - few of them, but more than Trevor anyway. 
> 
> Of course Mickey would make sure Ian was in the clear before he agreed to anything that could possibly put them in danger. I couldn't get on board with rolling on a cartel, even after I put my own pawns on the board, but this route seems believable. At first I wasn't going to give them the option to return to the States, but then I thought it could be a good facet to explore for how it will effect their relationship.


	32. Stars Falling And Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting McCarthy again. Flashback to the days after Mickey came out.

Stars Falling And Fading

 

Lou’s long legs are already propped on the table when Mickey makes his way out to the dining patio. She’s not alone. And it’s not McCarthy.

“The fuck’s this?” 

“Your lawyer,” she smirks, “sit down pretty boy. He’s been filled in on the situation, and he’s going to make sure the right legal steps are being covered by your fed before you stick your neck out. Gary,” slapping his shoulder, “Mickey. Mickey, Gary.”

“Gary,” he scans him over, wondering where the hell she picked this guy up. He’s chubby, middle aged, his watch cost more money than Mickey has ever seen in his life, and he’s clearly judging Mickey through those hazel eyes set too close together in his face.

“Just a little extra precaution,” she sighs, “you know, in case the daughter’s life ain’t worth it to the bureau to let you go.”

“Fuck,” he sighs as he sits down. She’s probably right, it probably doesn’t hurt to have all the T’s crossed here. And honestly, if the fed wanted to play them, he could easily give them fake documents claiming their clean records or pardons or whatever the fuck they even need at this point. Then they’d go blindly into this shit and not even get a damn thing out of it, just thrown back in the can, “alright.”

————

“Fuck,” tipping his head back, eyes closed before his fingers meet his lids. Relief starting to roll down his back. But fuck, he wants a cigarette when he tilts his head forward again. Envelope on the table. Ian’s clean record. McCarthy said it’d be about two weeks before they could send a passport and new ID to the compound. And fuckin’ fat Gary said it was all legit. So it’s that fuckin easy. Just a few keys on a fuckin’ laptop keyboard or some shit, and now he’s a free man. Free to do whatever the fuck he wants. Including pack up and head right back to the States. 

His breath hitches in his chest as he fingers the envelope. Envisioning now all the ways it can go from here. Mickey’s not free. Ian is. Jesus, fuck, that’s never worked well for them before. 

“Here,” her fingers in front of his face, joint pinched between them.

McCarthy’s going to send two feds and two civilians to the compound next week. Lou and Mickey won’t even know the difference. Supposedly. Between the two of them there’s probably never been a day that they haven’t been on alert for something that looks, smells, or sounds like law enforcement. Hard to believe they’d be able to slip two of them into their living and training quarters without one of them spotting the difference. 

They’ll start training them right away. By the time the season starts they’ll have assimilated themselves into the life that is Mexico. And from there, it’s up to them. All Mickey has to do is get them into the ring, from there it’s up to them to make the right cartel connections and Mickey is a free man. 

“This seems unreal,” he finally admits with a long exhale.

“Yeah,” she sighs.

“Where the fuck you find Gary?”

“C’mon love. This resort is chocked full of rich fat fucks from the US on holiday. Of course there’d be a couple lawyers hanging around.”

“How’d you get him to meet?”

She winks at him, “currency.”

“You better not have used sex.”

Rolling her eyes, “what do you think I am?” smirk rising, “nah, I don’t charge for that shit anymore. Can’t even give it away for free lately,” she laughs, taking the joint back from his offering fingers.

“Might not hurt to actually be nice when a dude…”

“Fuck that. Buy me a drink so I have to flash a flirty smile and pretend I’m all hot and bothered already when all he did is tell the bartender to bring her another. Thinkin’ it’ll double his chances anyway, like the booze was only for me, not to drop my pants. Whatever. I’ll just keep my fingers crossed that I lose a match or two and get a hot night with Eduardo,” raising her eyebrows with a suggestive wiggle.

“I thought you didn’t charge for it anymore.”

“Oh love. I guess I lied,” she giggles, it’s almost childlike, a sound he’s never heard from her. 

“You drunk already?”

“Nah,” the smile is genuine and unstrained. 

“Fuck you so happy for then?”

“What? I can’t be happy for a friend? This shit’s good. Wouldn’t hurt you to smile either pretty boy,” when he doesn’t respond she pushes her lenses away from her eyes, laying her hand down on his on the table, “you worried? Think el gingero’s gonna take off for the border and leave ya standing here with your dick in your hand? Please, guano nearly died in the desert lookin’ for ya. Pretty sure he’s stuck up your ass for life, uh literally.”

That fuckin’ smirk, “fuck off.”

“There he is,” slapping his middle finger out of the air when it rises, “can’t say I missed him though,” snickering as she rises from the table. 

————

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Standing in the middle of the room. Watching Ian still sleeping. He’ll wake up in about ten minutes. He’ll wake up, Mickey will give him his freedom documents and he’ll take off. Fuck. Jesus, fuck. 

He falls, more than sits on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. His stomach in knots. What’s it matter anyway? He was doing just fine here before Ian showed up. He was happy. He was content, that’s closer to right. Content to spend the days beating the hell out of his body in a good way, spend one night a week beating the hell out of his body and his opponent’s body. Also in a good way. Spend weekends either hitting the Pacific side and getting banged by an aggressive California boy. Or sitting on the Caribbean with that bitch pretending to be some dumb tourists who shit money. And fuck, even the shit with Eduardo, it just wasn’t that bad. Whatever the fuck the words were that were always drooling out of his mouth about Mickey’s god-like body and sapphire eyes, fuckever, a little body worship doesn’t hurt now and then. 

Fuck. Then firecrotch had to go and show up. And remind him what happiness actually is. What that fuckin’ feeling actually feels like. Fuck. His hands are getting slimy with sweat, eyes getting a little blurry around the edges as he stares holes into the envelope in his hand. 

Fuck. He can do it again. Mickey’s never relied on anybody for anything. He’s not about to start now. 

Sliding down to his side, facing Ian’s sleeping features. God, they’re gorgeous. Every single fucking freckle left, every single line, every single soft breathing sound that’s parting his lips, every single fucking part of him. Fuck. 

Soak it up now idiot, you won’t have it much longer.

His hand reaches out, landing on top of Ian’s on the mattress. He doesn’t even stir. 

————

The sun has started filtering through the lone crack in the curtain of the Milkovich house. It’s a narrow line of bright afternoon light cutting the bed in half. Cutting right through Ian’s sleeping form. The blankets pulled up to his shoulders, nothing but his face visible. 

Mickey sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out to trace his fingers through his hair. His eyes flicker open, lazily blinking at him, slowly coming into focus.

“Hey,” a half smile, “I slept in again, huh?”

“Yeah,” sighing, “you feeling alright?”

“Just tired,” but his voice sounds weird, strained. And his eyes close again.

“Well I ain’t gonna let you sleep all fuckin’ day. Ribs okay?”

“Yeah,” eyes opening again, this time a tiny spark of a star twinkling on his iris. Where did all the stars go? When did they start falling away from that galaxy? How did Mickey not notice them fizzling out and fading away?

“K,” grabbing the blankets, tossing them off the foot of the bed and heading south. They haven’t fucked since he came out. It’s been weird, silence the main thing that keeps happening when they’re alone. When he woke up on the floor at the Gallagher house the other morning, he didn’t even think about it, just got up and left. Not out of anger or resentment or whatever the fuck else has been churning up in his guts every thirty fucking seconds for the last three days every time he looks at that ginger fucknut. The only thing he was thinking was the fact that Terry was put away again. And that meant he was free to come back to the house. And chew Svetlana a new one for kicking Ian out in the first place. Dumb bitch, like she has any right whatsoever to decide who stays and who goes. 

Then he got to work cleaning her shit out of his bedroom. If it wasn’t for that fuckin’ baby he’d have thrown it all out on the curb. Fuckin’ baby with his big fuckin’ eyes always staring at Mickey like ‘yeah asshole, you’re it’. Fuckin’ baby. 

Burn the couch. As he’s standing in the doorway of his bedroom scanning over all of the whore’s shit stacked up in the living room, strewn over that fucking couch. Burn the couch. 

And that’s exactly what he does. Fuckin’ couch. It’s not hard to find another piece of shit couch to replace that piece of shit couch. And if not, who the fuck cares? No one ever sits on it anyway. And if they did, well then too fucking bad for them. Fuck ‘em.

He’s sweaty, out of breath, and shaking. Pushed, pulled, and dragged that couch all by himself under the L. The pounding in his head not subsiding as he dumps lighter fluid on the cushions, along with that fucking afghan. Dropping a match and stepping back. Fucking orange and brown, and fuck his chest hurts. It fucking hurts. His mom knit or crocheted or whatever the fuck that fuckin’ afghan. But it’s burning now. And it doesn’t fucking matter anyway. She’s fucking dead. 

Fuck, why does his chest hurt so fucking bad? Fucking stupid fucking afghan under his fingers, in his grasp as Ian pushed into him and he felt his whole fucking world coming together. Filling a void in his chest the night before, sitting on that stupid fucking couch sharing a smoke and beers. 

“Fuck!” he shouts it. When the stupid L starts clanging down the tracks, “Fuck!” again, tilting his head back and shouting at the top of his lungs as the couch lights up in oranges, blues, yellows, whites, reds. Black smoke swirling to the raised tracks above him, “Fuck!” until his whole body is shaking and his throat his raw, until his breath is gone and his stomach is numb. And it doesn’t help. He still wants to slam his fists into the concrete until they’re bloody and raw. Until the pain is vibrating all the way to his shoulders. Until his skin is no longer recognizable and he can’t feel a fucking thing past the pain in his hands. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t because as he’s standing here burning the fucking couch, even a part of his mother that he fucking misses but he’ll never admit that he misses her; he doesn’t because as that black smoke is circling in the air and he’s hearing a goddamned crow making a fucking racket somewhere down in the alley, there’s a set of arms wrapping themselves around his chest. A set of long, pale, freckled arms. The idiot forgot his jacket and his skin is cold to the touch against Mickey’s chin. But his breath is warm on the back of Mickey’s neck. And his cold stupid fingers are wiping tears off Mickey’s cheeks that he didn’t even know were there. And his stupid voice is whispering in Mickey’s ear, some fucking shit about not being able to find him when he woke up, about checking the stupid Alibi. Like Mickey can ever drink there again. Fuck that shit anyway. Like he can just walk in there and all those fucking idiots there will treat him the same now that they know. Like he won’t take the brunt of every single stupid fucking joke for the rest of the year. Jokes that aren’t even funny anyway. Fuck them. But fuck, it’s not like Mickey can afford to just drink anywhere. Fuck.

And fuck Ian. Fuck him. But his stupid fucking arms feel so right. And his stupid fucking whisper is making Mickey’s stomach rise with butterflies. And the idiot is probably freezing cold standing here with no jacket. Idiot.

They go inside. But they don’t talk. He doesn’t tell him why he burned the fucking couch. Not like he has to. He doesn’t tell him why he moved Svetlana’s shit out of his room. He doesn’t have to say that shit either. But fuck, the shit he should say won’t come out either. 

So it’s silence. And weird looks. And so much fucking tension. And Ian’s been sleeping in, three mornings in a row now. And he looks weird. Like there’s something sitting on his chest and he can’t get out from under it. And Jesus, fuck, Mickey feels that too. But he doesn’t know what to say. He should at least say he’s not mad, he’s not mad at Ian. He’s just mad. He’s just always fucking angry. He’s always been fucking angry and he doesn’t know what to do with all of it anymore. His entire fucking life has been this. This endless cycle of violence and abuse. Of alcohol and fights. His entire life he’s been a whipped dog that keeps coming back to his abusive owner because he has nowhere else to fucking go. Even though he knows he’s just going to get whipped again and again, but he has nowhere else to fucking go. He’s spent his whole life being used and treated like shit, so much that he doesn’t even know what it’s like to care about himself. About anything. Anything but that fucking dopey ginger smile that he hasn’t seen much lately. 

And he should tell him, tell him about that stupid fucking afghan. And about his mom. And about how she was the only person in his life that never hit, or used, or screamed at him like he was a piece of trash. And how he watched her die. Right there. Right fucking there, the spot that he walks across every single day to grab a beer out of the fridge. And he should tell him that. But how does he say any of that shit? How could he say any of that shit and watch those stars in his eyes dim and fall away as he’s talking, watch pity and hurt and anger rise on his face? How could he say any of that to a guy who still has dreams in his head and stars in his eyes? How?

And he should at least say it’s still true, it’s still true that what they have is what makes him free. And that it doesn’t fucking matter what everyone else knows. But fuck, it’s too fucking hard. And it was so easy before, when it was just fucking at the ball field, and the store, and the bleachers, and wherever the fuck they could find a place to just get what they wanted and move along. But then what they wanted had to go and fucking change. And Terry had to go and walk in on them. And that stupid fucking whore had to go and end up pregnant.

Fuck. Why fucking talk about any of that shit? 

So he’s sucking his dick and it’s not getting hard. It’s not getting hard because he doesn’t give a shit about Mickey anymore. He was never attracted to this garbage life. He wanted something real, something with a future and money in his pockets. Something with stability and room service. He wanted someone who would shout stupid shit at him while he was fucking him. He wanted guys to shove money in his shorts and tell him he should be a model. 

Not a piece of fucking trash in a dump of a fucking house with a Russian whore of a wife and a fuckin’ baby who… 

Who he can’t even fucking look at. 

“Fuck,” he pulls away from his cock, heals of his hands meeting his lids and grinding.

“I don’t know what that’s about,” sheepishly pulling his boxers up, “think I gotta piss though,” he’s slow getting up. And he’s slow moving to the bathroom. And he looks like he’s still in pain. But he said his ribs were fine. 

Mickey doesn’t move. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands over his eyes, forcing back the constant fucking burning. The constant fucking ache to just shout it all out. To just put his fist through the fucking drywall, and the window, and the front fucking door. 

He sits down next to him. Close enough that his leg is flush with Mickey’s. Hand on his thigh, a half-assed squeeze as he sighs. His touch might as well be a hot poker, jolting Mickey to his feet, but his stupid fucking hands clamp down on his hips, spin him around and yank his boxers to his knees. His big ol’ mo of a dick responds immediately when Ian’s mouth finds it and his hands find his balls and a damn skinny finger finds his asshole. He might not want Mickey anymore but his dick down his throat is enough to wake his own back up. And then they’re fucking and still not saying any of the shit they should be saying. 

But they’re not just fucking. That idiot is pulling him into his lap and kissing his chest and kissing his neck and kissing his mouth. And he’s guiding his dick in but not letting go of his mouth, and he’s not thrusting like a horny fucking teenager who can’t get to orgasm quick enough. He’s barely moving, and neither is Mickey. They’re just sitting here rocking. And the only time the kisses stop is to catch their breath, and when they do his eyes open and all the stars and the moon are right there. They’re right there and Mickey feels like he could reach out and touch them. 

And by the time they go to sleep that night they’ve decided that the Cubs stand a chance this year. And the Hawks are shit this year. And the Bears are whatever, no one cares about the Bears ‘cause football sucks. And maybe they’ll sneak into a couple Cubs games this summer. 

But they haven’t decided how exactly they want to break down this barrier between them. And they haven’t said any of the shit they should have said. But when he starts to fall asleep with Ian pressed up against his back, and he takes a deep breath against Mickey’s neck he just thinks maybe things are so fucking bad.

And when he goes to the Alibi the next day he decides, yeah, things can be okay. 

And when he gets home and Ian’s still in bed, and when he looks at his eyes and he doesn’t see a single fucking star, not even a dim dying one; he knows it is that fucking bad. And things can’t be okay, because things can never be okay. Not in his life.

————

He watches his hand. His skinny, long-fingered, gorgeous hand as it turns underneath Mickey’s. As the fingers separate and press between Mickey’s FUCK. As they press down in a firm but gentle grip, lifting off the mattress, bringing the bundle of bones and veins and flesh to his lips. Pressing a fire into the back of Mickey’s hand. With a smile. With open eyes and a galaxy of whirling stars and a million moons.

“Morning sleepy face,” he hears himself whisper. 

“Morning ocean eyes,” that stupid fucking dopey ass smile that says he knows that was corny as fuck rises, and he’s been thinking about saying it since the moment they set foot on the beach, bringing his hand to his lips again and again. And again before he’s wrapping his arms around Mickey and dragging him close to his bare chest, and kissing heat and passion into his neck, against his throat and his hands are dropping to travel his chest and stomach. Following his hips to start yanking his pants off, trailing to his ass to grind him in close, pelvis to pelvis. And there’s a stupid damn smile in his kisses, and there’s an endless supply of possibilities in his eyes. And one thing that is absolute, one thing that could never be argued again, “I love you,” with that damn grin and a hundred kisses on every surface of skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey would definitely at this point be worried about Ian having his freedom while he's still technically a wanted man. But of course, he'd look out for Ian first. He always has.
> 
> I'm sure the couch still existed after that, but I wanted to give him something resembling release at that point. Between the two of them things would have definitely been strained, I think Mickey would have felt really insecure in those following days after spending his life under Terry's influence. And if Ian was sliding into depression then he'd be a little out of it. But yes, friends, that would be considered love-making. And for me, I think love-making a couple days after the coming out is a lot more satisfying than victory sex the night of.
> 
> Like that I threw a crow into the background while the couch is burning and Ian is holding Mickey as an afghan his mother knit is burning with the memory of that day?


	33. Attention Hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian having to share Mickey's attention.

Attention Hungry

 

“Iiiiiaaaannnnn Gaaallagher. You’ve got mail. Real live, first class, from the US government, sent to your PO Box mail,” he smirks, leaning against the doorframe with the envelope extended. But when Ian reaches for it he puts it behind his back. Eyebrows raised, chewing on his lower lip. Waiting. Waiting for it. 

Ian lunges, backing him up against the doorframe. Instead of going for the mail, he goes for his asscheeks, grabbing hard and pressing him in close. Watching that cocky smirk turn into a surprised smile before he crashes into his lips. 

He’s still a little pissed that Mickey made this deal without running it by him first. Getting him off free and clear before anything else even began. Of course that’s what Mickey would do. And he wasn’t surprised. 

He’s starting to back into the room, reaching for the door to pull it shut when he hears, “Mickey, Mickey!”

And of course Mickey backs away. Handing over the mail with a cheek tap and a smirk as he turns to the little girl that is insatiable when it comes to Mickey’s attention. And he never denies it. She nearly knocked him over when they came back from the Caribbean, she was so excited to see him. And him only, flying across the yard in that uncoordinated little kid way, crashing into him, arms around his legs, face buried in his stomach. Doc’s been looking for placement, but nothing has come up yet. As much as she’s opened up to Mickey, it’d be a shame to see her go anytime soon. She’s been separated from her family, and lord knows what’s been done to her beyond a brand on her skinny leg. An orphanage is out of the question as far as Ian is concerned, and he knows Mickey would never let that happen anyway. He’d adopt her himself before he’d see that happen. 

He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching as they converse in Spanish. Mickey’s knelt down in the dirt of the yard in front of her, she’s wildly and quickly explaining something with her doll flailing around in one hand and a grin on her face. He watches until a mirroring grin appears on Mickey’s face, one that takes the very breath out of Ian’s lungs before Mickey gets up and her little hand snakes into his as they walk towards the main house. 

Then he sits. His hands are shaking as he rips open the envelope. An equal mix of excitement and dread. This makes him free to go home. But he doesn’t want to go home, and he doesn’t know how to tell Fiona that. He doesn’t know how to tell her any of this. She’s going to think he’s off his meds and he’s off the rails. She’s going to think his life down here is a delusion of happiness and fulfillment, not actually those two solid incredible things. And she’s going to gather the whole lot of Gallaghers and try to stage an intervention as soon as he goes home for a weekend. Fuck, he doesn’t want to deal with that. He doesn’t even want to deal with hearing the shit storm over the phone. 

Sighing as he eyes his legal passport, legal driver’s license. Clean criminal record. Not a speck on it. 

He’ll call Lip, that’ll be easier. But not now. Now, he has a man he loves whose attention he has to fight with a six year old girl over. And right now, she’s winning. He’s going to have to bring out his A game if he’s going to get the attention he’s yearning for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the reason I had Mickey make the decision to get Ian out from under his legal trouble before he committed to helping McCarthy was because I wanted to throw a test at Ian. See if he'd run back home as soon as possible or stay with Mickey - I was ready, more than ready, for Ian to make like a shit-ton of commitments by this point to make up for some of his shitty storylines in later seasons.


	34. It's Different Now, Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So how will Ian get Mickey's attention for a whole night?

It’s Different Now, Right?

 

“Holy fuck,” his eyes roll shut, his breath chokes off and Mickey stops moving.

And he gets it. Seeing that. Seeing the way his eyes got all wide, seeing the way his body arched with pure instinctual pleasure. Seeing the way his ribcage expanded with a deep breath, letting it out slowly and catching in his throat. 

Holy fuck he gets it as Ian’s head falls back with a gasp and he starts grinding his hips, rolling back into Mickey. Mickey’s hands grip down on the knobs of his pelvis, “hold on tough guy,” against his spine, “gonna be over in like two fuckin’ seconds if you keep that up.”

Fuckin’ horny ginger fuck opened right up like a goddamned spring flower as soon as he started working over him with his mouth. Then he started bitching about how Mickey never even lets Ian do that to him and he wants to, and blah fuckin’ blah blah. Pretty easy to shut that damn mouth up with just the right tongue action. He’ll have to keep that in mind from here on out. How to shut up a Gallagher in two simple steps. 

Fuckin’ prick doesn’t stop though, “Jesus, fuck, Ian just…”

“Me too Mick,” gasping as his entire fucking giant body starts tensing up, a shudder racing through his core and pulsing around Mickey, clamping down like a vise and forcing a toe-tingling orgasm to spill out of Mickey as his vision goes blurry and he buries his face in Ian’s back. Damn it, it would have been nice to be making out. Stupid tall fucker. 

“Holy fuck Mick,” breath heavy, skin glazed with sweat. Head turned away from Mickey now, looking at the wall, “holy fuck.”

“Yeah, well could’ve been better if you’d held still for thirty fuckin’ seconds…”

“Do it again,” now his head turns, looking over his shoulder with a smile. 

“Why don’t you just chill a minute firecrotch…”

“No. Come on, you can do it.”

“Yeah. ‘Course I can, but I think you should let that, uh, I don’t know, set in? Or something. I mean, it’s not like…”

A coy expression rises, he rolls his hips into Mickey again, sending wretched tingles of overstimulation through his cock and forcing a grunt from his lips. Of course this idiot would know what to do with his hips, fucker used to grind on dudes with nothing but gold shorts on for a living. Of course he knows how to work his ass. 

“Mmm. You don’t start moving, I’ll just ride…”

It chokes off in his throat as Mickey thrusts slowly into his next hip roll. One hand gripping his pelvis, the other sliding through his hair. Lips on the bare, sweat glazed skin of his back. Damn it, he wants his lips. He wants to press his lips into his while he slowly pulls back, nearly all the way before gently sliding back in until he bottoms out. Feeding off the gasps and breathy moans.

When his hand makes moves towards that perfect cock, just laying there all hard and needy for attention. Ian gasps out a, “no,” swatting his hand away, “I wanna,” choking off again, “I don’t need,” hand reaching between his legs to feel their connection as Mickey rocks into him. His breath is picking up, ribcage starting to move spastically, “Mick, fuck, I can’t…”

“Okay,” stopping, pulling back gently, “you’re alright,” pressing down on his hip to get him flat on his back. Kneeling between his knees, “look at me.”

His eyes open, misted with bliss and spinning wildly with rising panic. Finding Mickey’s gaze and watering over.

“Hey,” leaning over him, “just breathe, you’re fine. Take a couple deep breaths. It’s alright,” sliding his hand through his hair, leaning forehead to forehead, “breathe with me Gallagher, you’re alright.” 

“I don’t… I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want to… I want to keep…”

“Hey,” leaning far enough out to look at his eyes, “chill. It’s fine. Let’s reel it in for a minute.”

“But I want…”

“Yeah. I know you want this fat cock in your ass, but I ain’t doin’ it if you’re all worked up alright? So let’s breathe it down a bit, take it back down to a reasonable level and try again a different night.”

“No,” his head lifts off the bed nearly knocking into Mickey’s as his hands start grasping for cock, trying to reposition and pull him back in.

“Woe,” jerking away, taking his shoulders in his hands, “hey talk to me for a minute. Just sit here, talk, breathe.”

“Fuck Mick. Just I don’t want, I want to…”

“Alright. Let’s not talk,” cocking his head, hands sliding to his face, drawing him near. Pressing his lips against his tenderly.  
He totally understands that feeling. Like everything is suddenly closing in around him and there’s no room to breathe. No way to think straight. Grasping for some kind of control that can’t exist at that moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he breaks the kiss, “I’m sorry Mick, I…”

“Don’t,” sighing, stroking his jawline, tilting his face to look in his glazed eyes, “don’t be sorry. Nothing to be sorry about. I get it. Hear me?”

Averting his eyes with a flush of embarrassment. his mouth opens, undoubtedly to apologize again but Mickey cuts him off, “you hear me firecrotch? I get it.”

“Yeah,” mumbling towards his chest.

“No,” tilting his chin up, leaning in close enough there’s no way to deny eye contact, “you didn’t hear me. I get it. Don’t ever fuckin’ apologize for that, alright?”

His response chokes off in his chest and his eyes fill again. Spilling over this time, but Mickey catches them with his fingers like mini windshield wipers. Guiding his forehead to his lips, “I love you,” encircling his big frame in his arms, “even when you’re being a crybaby.”

“Fuck you,” mumbled into his chest where he’s hidden his face.

“Maybe later. When you stop sobbin’ like a bitch,” pressing his lips against the top of his head, dragging his entire body as close as possible. 

————

There’s silence encircling them, but there’s nothing heavy or daunting about it. Both awake. Lying here in the darkness and silence of the Mexico desert with Ian’s head tucked under his chin. He watches the ceiling, feeling Ian’s fingers playing a pattern of restlessness on his open palm. 

“What, um,” his voice is quiet, but not laced with sleep, “what was your first time bottoming like?”

“You were there dipshit.”

“Huh?”

“You think I’d bottom in fuckin’ juvie or somethin’? Not like I’d bend over for just anybody fuckface.”

“But that was…”

“A weak moment,” he laughs, pressing his lips into that bright hair that keeps tickling his chin anyway.

“I didn’t even, that was not very gentle.”

“Gentle? The fuck you think I am Gallagher? I was horny as fuck.”

“But it’s different now, right? It’s okay now, it’s okay to…”

“Spit it out mumbles.”

“I know I hurt you. I know sometimes when I was manic, sometimes it was too much, too fast, and too hard. And you never said anything, and sometimes I knew it but you never said anything and if you had said something, I just,” his head rises suddenly, eyes piercingly bright in the darkness, “It wasn’t you, there was nothing you could have done. It was a compulsion, there was nothing I could have done at the time. There was nothing enjoyable about it. And I know I hurt you, but you kept taking it because you didn’t want me to take off again, right? You thought if you told me to fuck off, I would. Didn’t you? And then you did tell me to get help, you were worried about me and I freaked out. But it wasn’t your fault Mick. I never told you that. None of that shit was your fault. You always got shit on, your whole fucking life so you just thought it was okay for me to shit on you too. And I never should have done any of the stuff I did. I never should have hurt you, in any way. I love you, and love should never mean pain. It shouldn’t mean insecurities and cheating. And you should never have to just take my shit and pretend it’s okay.”

“Ian,” he sighs, reaching out to stroke his face, “that shit was the disorder…”

“No it wasn’t. It was me. The disorder is me, and that’s okay. It’s okay now because I know that I can control it, and I can still feel like me. But it’s not okay to just not take responsibility for the shit I’ve done, even if it was fueled by mania, it’s still my responsibility to treat you right. No one’s ever treated you right Mick. I want to be that person. Part of being that person is owning up to the shit I’ve put you through. You don’t have to accept an apology from me every time I bring this stuff up, but I want to acknowledge it. Because I want you to know that I realize I hurt you and I’ll do everything I can to never hurt you again. On any level. But especially this,” his hand his sliding up Mickey’s thigh, “I don’t want sex to ever hurt. That, earlier, you didn’t hurt me, I just got overwhelmed, but nothing hurt. You know that, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I just felt like I was losing too much control, you know? And it’s not that I didn’t trust you with the control, I know you. I know that even the times we have fought and hit each other, it wasn’t because you wanted to see me hurt. It just, I don’t know, it’s like everything else in your life. The people that were supposed to love you unconditionally were the people that hurt you the most, so it was just normal to you. And of course if I pushed you, you’d eventually snap. That’s just,” he shrugs, “it’s like the alcohol abuse and mental disorders in the Gallagher house. It’s just normal for us,” he half-smiles, “but other people think we’re fucked up.”

“Slow week at the clinic? You, uh, studying for a psychology degree next or what?”

“Fuck you,” the half-smile turns all smile.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Uh yeah,” reaching out to tap his cheek a few times, “unless you still need some time firecrotch.”

“Time,” he snorts with a laugh, “I need time to eat your ass. I’m not fucking you until you let me.”

“Fine tough guy.”

“Would it be weird if I told you how fucking gorgeous you are?”

“Yeah. Now shut the fuck up and get down to business.”

Of course that doesn’t fucking stop him, “you’re gorgeous Mick. Whether you want to hear it or not, I’m going to start telling you that all the fucking time. You’re fucking gorgeous, you’re perfect, you’re sexy, you’re fucking incredible, I love your face and your body and your cock and your ass. I love your voice and your laugh. I fucking love your smile and I love your heart and soul.”

“Fuck, Ian. Love my cock so much, put it in your mouth and shut the fuck up.”

Fuckever, idiot thinks Mickey’s got body image issues from childhood sexual trauma or whatever, he’ll shut up eventually. He ain’t the only one who got an earful of psychology shit from Doc, and maybe he isn’t the only one who spilled his guts to the old guy. ‘Cause maybe it felt kind of good to get some of that stuff off his chest. And maybe it was the right thing to sort through some of the old shit before they got started on the new. 

It’s likely Mickey’ll never admit to it. But he will admit this, “fuck, Ian that feels good,” as that fucker’s tongue finds exactly the right spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm trying to stick as close as possible to realistically portraying bipolar disorder. Safe to say it would have affected them both in a lot of negative ways - some of which we saw clearly. But now that Ian has found the right meds and the right self-care schedule, he would be remembering some of the ways in which the disorder hurt Mickey and he'd want to apologize (though it's out of Gallagher fashion to accept that they're capable of hurting people and then take full responsibility for it).
> 
> Also at this point I think he'd feel like he needed full control in pretty much every single aspect of his life to keep himself stable. But we know Mickey and we know he's there to provide the support he needs.


	35. Right There Next To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Mickey's fears of abandonment rising.

Right There Next To You

 

“You look worn out,” folding another shirt and tossing it on the cot before taking the steps towards Mickey. Reaching out to rub the back of his neck, “tough day?”

“Nah.”

“So,” apparently one word answers are going to be it today, “still thinkin’ three of the four are shit?”

“Yep.”

“And the one that’s worth anything is a civilian?”

Not even a word this time, just a nod. He and Lou were immediately making bets with one another on the new fighters. They’ve agreed on one of the guys being an agent but opinions are mixed on the others. 

“Doesn’t really matter though, right? You did your part by getting them in the fights. That was the deal?”

“Yeah.”

And the season starts next week. Rubbing at a knot in the nape of his neck until he squirms away, “alright,” sighing. Back to the folding. He seemed fine this morning, but the grumpiness is rolling off him now. So Ian will let him stew in silence. 

Feeling his eyes burning holes into the back of his head while he folds and sorts the laundry. Caving to the pressure, “what?”

He shrugs when Ian turns to look at him, dropping eye contact but not before he sees that expression like Ian just reached out and slapped him.

Scrolling through his mind, rewinding to the conversations they’ve had today. Not much. Morning run was relaxed, the chit-chat was normal. The parting kiss this morning before Ian headed to the clinic was normal. He sat by the mats and watched a little of the grappling, laughing when Lou took Mickey to the ground immediately and tapped him out. He snorted at Ian like he was a distraction, passing off the blame. But he didn’t seem pissed, or even annoyed on any real level. 

Ian went to the main house to get their laundry off the line and now they’re here. And Mickey is staring forlornly at the laundry. And when his eyes dart to the open duffle bag on the floor, Ian’s chest explodes with a rush of protectiveness and a need to stifle the rejection rising inside his lover. 

He tries to act nonchalant about it, “just laundry Mick. You know, wear clothes until they’re dirty, put ‘em in the washer, hang them out to dry. Most people then fold them and place them in dresser drawers. But not you,” balling up a pair of socks, dropping them on the bed before he motions to Mickey’s pile of clean clothes stacked up on top of the dresser. Unfolded and begging for Ian to straighten them out and put them away, “how do you even know what’s clean?”

He shrugs. No response, eyes lingering on the open bag. Fuck, it’s not like he’ll voice his concern. He won’t ask why the bag’s out, he won’t ask him if he’s going home now, if he’s decided to leave him. Never come back. Abandonment, Mickey’s biggest fear and Ian’s done it now how many times?

He plops down beside him on his cot. Leaning in quickly to press his lips into his neck, “I’m not going home. I don’t have to go home. Home is right here,” nuzzling his ear with his nose, “bag’s out because some people have more clothes than can fit in two tiny dresser drawers and they don’t like to leave clean clothes just lying around all haphazard like you,” hand sliding the length of his bare muscled back slimy with drying sweat, “so they leave some clothes in the bag. You know, clothes that aren’t necessary for every day use. Like a sweatshirt, swim trunks,” taking his earlobe between his lips, “spare socks, that t-shirt you told me makes me look like a tourist,” fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his work-out shorts.

“Yeah well, it does.”

“Yeah well, I like it. It’s a keepsake from the first time I saw an ocean that wasn’t in your eyes,” pressing his lips into his neck.

“You’re so corny.”

“Horny? Did you say horny? I’m sorry I can’t hear you,” sliding his fingers further down his crack as he lifts just a little off the bed to allow space, “all I can hear is the voice in my head that keeps reminding me you’ll be standing naked in the steam of the shower in about thirty seconds and I’m going to be standing behind you with a dick so hard it fucking hurts just looking at you, and…”

“Shut the fuck up then and do it,” jolting to his feet, leaving Ian sitting on the cot alone with empty hands and a painful hard-on. 

————

“Your turn,” taking him by the hips to switch positions in the water. Being met with a groan of displeasure when he’s out from under the heat of the spray on his achy shoulders, “alright, come on, I’ll make it worth it,” coaxing while steering him away as he leans his own head back in the water to let the shampoo rinse out. Eyes closed, feeling Mickey’s on him for a moment before he’s surprised by his arms wrapping around him, face meeting his chest. Tucking himself in against Ian’s heart like he can hide there.   
Caught off guard by the sudden needy affection, but he rolls with it. Wrapping arms around him, tight but not hard. Keeping him nice and close as he tilts his face down into his wet hair with a sigh. 

He knows exactly what this is about and he wants to remind him again that he’s not leaving. He talked to Lip last week. It went better than he thought. But it didn’t stop the guilt from rising for missing out on the last months of happenings in the Gallagher house. He has to just get used to it though. Their days of relying on each other too much are over. He has to remind himself they’re siblings, they only need each other for support, not to be an overbearing and constant presence in each other’s lives. Even if it wasn’t Mexico, it was time for Ian to leave the nest. He’s felt better about himself, about his disorder, and his future now than he ever has in his life. And part of that is getting away from the judgement and codependence of his siblings. 

And Mickey. Mickey has found a niche here. Somewhere that he can be himself without all the weight of being a Milkovich, walking around under all his old labels like heavy gray rainclouds spilling over and dousing him every time he starts to make any kind of forward progress. Ian’s not sure how long he’ll want to earn his living by fighting, but for now it works. And once his record is clear, the possibilities will be endless. He’s smart and resourceful, something that a lot of people in the Southside never saw in him. Potential, he has so much potential, he just needed someone to believe in him again. Something Ian couldn’t seem to do when he was too wrapped up in his own shitty lot in life, fucking bipolar. But sorting that out, coming to terms with the constant upkeep of his body and mind, it’s just not that bad with Mickey beside him. And now that Mickey is taking care of his body in ways Ian never thought possible, fuck. It’s so easy to stay on track.

His hands move slowly across the surface of Mickey’s warm flesh. Tracing up his spine, sliding across his shoulders, chest, thumbs against his chin to force him out of his safe haven with a grumpy untranslatable grumble of displeasure as his eyes, still fogged with orgasm from moments earlier, meet Ian’s slowly. Blinking lazily, “I’m not going back to Chicago until you’re a free man. Then we’ll both go. Or all three of us will go. Or all four of us, I bet Rosa would hate the city though.”

“I wanna adopt her,” he blurts out suddenly, shock rising on his face like he can’t believe he even said it. 

Ian doesn’t hide the happiness in his voice, “good. Let’s do that. As soon as your record is clean. You know what else we should do?”

A smile is crinkling his eyes but hasn’t appeared on his lips yet, trying his damndest to stifle any emotion threatening to crack the surface, “what?”

“Let’s get married.”

It came out of his mouth, but it seems to have stalled in the minuscule space between them. Taking it’s sweet fucking time to get to Mickey’s ears as Ian’s heart pauses painfully in his chest. That was stupid. He should have actually planned something, said something romantic, or meaningful. Or got a ring at least. Or knelt down and fucking begged because he should be begging Mickey for his future, not just simply requesting it like it’s no big deal. Like it’s a dinner plan, or a date. Fuck, asking him on a date might be a better first step. 

“Fuck,” it sort of shakes, enough that Ian’s heart thuds painfully against his ribs and he wants to take it back. The pause enough to make him want to jump out of his skin and apologize for being dumb enough to just blurt it out that way, like it’s no big deal to get married. Then the smile spreads from his eyes to his lips, “okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah fuckface, okay. Let’s get married.”

“Okay,” a sigh of relief so big passes his lips that Mickey laughs. And Ian loves the sound, but he cuts it off anyway. He cuts it off because if he doesn’t kiss him right now, right at this very second he’ll lose his damn mind. What’s left of it anyway. 

Crashing into his lips that have always felt like so much more than just lips. Burning kisses that tear through his soul every single time they meet. His tongue that has always had a spell cast over Ian’s mouth, like it could never be kissed by anyone else ever again after that very first kiss. And his hands, his hands that have always seared Ian’s flesh with every single touch. Leaving a trail of fingerprints over every freckle, line, and pore; marking them as his own for the rest of his life. Like he could never feel the touch of any other hand after his body had been touched by Mickey’s hands. And he never wanted to. From that very first time with Mickey, it was always him. He was always searching for Mickey in everyone else’s kisses, and hands. In everyone else’s breath and touch. And he could never find him anywhere else. Nothing would ever satisfy him again once he’d felt, tasted, and been inside Mickey. There was no other place on Earth that could ever make him feel whole and broken all at the same time, fulfilled but ruined, incredible but horrid. Every single thing, it was all there and only there. 

And holy fuck, he just agreed to marry him. Mickey Milkovich just agreed to marry Ian Gallagher. Holy fuck. 

And now Ian’s fucking hands are shaking and he’s trying to hide it by burying them in Mickey’s wet hair, by sliding them down his back, by grabbing his perfect ass to pull him close. Suddenly the water turns off behind him, the curtain opens and they’re both stumbling out into the bedroom without breaking the kisses. And Mickey’s steering but when he gets to the cot, Ian turns him, gently guiding him down to his back. And he’s lowering himself over Mickey, straddling him and kissing him. His hands are still shaking but it’s in a good way, they’re still grazing every single surface that is Mickey’s tight muscled body. 

Without having to say a word, Mickey is understanding what's about to happen. And his hands are sliding up Ian’s legs, caressing his throbbing hard cock tenderly while the other keeps moving. It keeps moving and it doesn’t stop until Ian is so ready he feels like he’s about to lose it already. But this time, he has complete control. This time it’s Ian who guides Mickey’s slicked up cock past the threshold. He does while his lips are against Mickey’s and Mickey is holding his face in his hands. When he tilts his face away, breaking the passionate kiss, it’s only long enough to look, only long enough to see that nothing is wrong. Nothing is uncomfortable, nothing is hurting, nothing is painful. It is only pleasure, it is only enjoyment. It is not a world spinning too fast and sliding away from Ian’s fingertips. It is a world that they are in together. Only them. And when Ian’s hand finds Mickey’s and entwines their fingers, he smiles because this world, this one right here at his fingertips; it is exactly the place he wants to live the rest of his life. Right here, bodies together as one, minds connected at a level where no words are needed. Right here, hearts beating a steady rhythm in synch with one another. Right here, grasping the only hand he’s ever truly wanted to hold, feeling everything inside of his body winding and unwinding, crashing and calming. 

He’s standing on a ledge, but the sun is shining softly on his face, the breeze is blowing gentle and refreshing. He’s peering over the edge, knowing he’s about to fall. Knowing he’s about to lose all control for just a moment, for just one moment. But in his hand, at his fingertips, is a man who will catch him. He will catch him. And he will hold him when he hits the ground, he will hold him until he’s strong enough to stand again on his own. 

He leans into those lips for more soul-scorching kisses. He feels Mickey’s hand pulsing against his own. Fighting the instinct to thrust up into Ian. He fights it, giving Ian every single ounce of control, giving him the opportunity to do whatever feels best, whatever he needs for himself. Hand in his hand, hand sliding across his jaw, keeping his face close. But he won’t grasp hips, he won’t push or pull to get the speed he desires. He’ll wait, he’ll wait right there at the bottom of the ledge Ian is standing on. He’ll wait right there, knowing exactly when to extend his arms.

Without Ian having to say a word, without making a move, without reaching out. He steps. He takes that step off the ledge. And as he’s stepping, Mickey’s arms are wrapping around him. They’re drawing him gently down to his chest. His hands are firm and strong against his shoulder-blade and on the back of his head. 

The world hasn’t closed in around him. It’s disappeared completely. The single part left is this man. This man beneath him who is holding him close, stroking his hair, keeping his shaking body in his tender embrace. This man who’s heart is beating against Ian’s ear, a fluttery pattern that Ian can feel over the rushing in his own body. He can feel it, taking a deep breath and finding that center. Finding that pattern, absorbing it as his own, letting it take him over, surrounding him in that familiar place. His ground and his sky. A place where he can stand on his own two feet, steady and strong; but he can also fly. He can soar high above himself without the fear of getting lost in the endless expanse of blue sky. He doesn’t need to, lifting his head to watch the endless expanse of blue peering back at him. Getting lost that easily and that safely. 

Settling his face into Mickey’s chest again, cheek against that beautiful crow tattoo. The crow that called him to Mexico, the ones that found him here when he was lost and nearly dead in the desert, the ones that were cawing outside the shack when he was barely conscious reminding him that yes, this was the right decision. And this crow, this beautiful black-inked crow that reminds him every single day that yes, this was the right decision, this is the right path to walk and he will always be right there next to you on this path. 

“Thank you,” he hears himself whisper against Mickey’s warm, comforting, sweat glazed skin, “thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that a marriage proposal? Is that really how he's going to ask someone as incredible as Mickey Milkovich?
> 
> I wouldn't give a shit about Ian bottoming if he hadn't done it with Trevor. So I figure he should do it with Mickey and it should evolve into something they both enjoy.


	36. Favorite Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, but Ian won't bottom all the time.
> 
> An information dump, and some past frustrations meeting present frustrations.

Favorite Color

 

Ian is turning into a big blob of putty against him. Actually, on top of him. And he’s getting heavy. 

“Thank you,” he hears him whisper softly, barely audibly against his chest. Mickey tilts his chin to kiss the top of his head, “thank you,” again.

“Yeah no problem firecrotch. Don’t be gettin’ all excited thinkin’ this’ll be the new norm or something.”

He groans quietly as he unfurls his long fuckin’ legs, but still doesn’t shift his full body weight off Mickey. If anything, even more of it is on him now. 

“Yeah, ah, how ‘bout you just make yourself comfortable.”

“I am,” sounding slurred with exhaustion and his cheek mashed up against Mickey’s chest.

Fondling his hair with one hand now, the other remaining steadily on his back. Moving up and down with every breath. What the fuck did he get himself into? Telling the ginger fuckhead he’d marry him, they’d adopt Rosa. And now he’s being smothered to death underneath him. What a dumb idea. 

“Fuck,” he sighs into the soft orange hair that’s still damp against his lips, “so, uh, I’d let you sleep there if it wasn’t going to crush me to death. And if we didn’t have to get to dinner still. And if you didn’t have to stay on schedule. And if I wasn’t fuckin’ starvin’.”

“Shh, I’m sleeping.”

“Fuck you.”

“Mmhmm, just did. And it was fucking incredible.”

“Yeah well, don’t get used to it.”

“I heard you the first time. Like I could stay away from your ass.”

“Just so we’re clear…”

His face appears, a big dopey grin under a set of glazed-over eyes, “we’re clear,” pulling himself up to level with Mickey’s face, “we’re crystal clear,” pressing his lips against Mickey’s as his hands start wandering, trailing down the backs of his thighs, wasting no time finding his ass, working a finger in while his dick stiffens against Mickey’s once more.

“You fuckin’ serious Gallagher?” 

“I am. Your fault though, you agreed to be my husband. Can’t blame me for feeling like I’m the luckiest fucker on this Earth,” working a second finger in as his lips kiss a trail down his throat, chest, spending some time circling a nipple, “and I’m going to spend the rest of my life reminding you how fucking perfect you are.”

————

“Jesus, fuck,” startling awake at the sound of a thud on the door.

“Hey fuckers, missed dinner. Brought it. But I ain’t openin’ the door and risking walking in on fucking. Rocky don’t allow take-out, so this plate balancing act is gettin’ real fuckin’ old real fuckin’ quick. If I ever eat in a restaraunt I’m going to tip the shit out of my waitress.”

“Shit,” running his hand through Ian’s hair, “wake up,” whispering against the top of his head, “yo sleepy face, gotta eat and take your pills.”

“Hmm?”

Hands moving down his neck, rubbing on his shoulder-blades, “gotta eat something and take your meds.”

“Oh shit,” jolting out of bed quickly, yanking on a pair of pants off the floor, “what time is it?” gazing out the window at the fading daylight, “shit I’m off schedule.”

“Yeah,” dragging himself to the edge of the bed with a groan, dirty pair of underwear on the floor will work. Yanking them up and rolling the dirty sheets off the cot.

“Okay fuckers, seriously. Food’s gonna be covered in dirt in about three seconds…”

Ian shoves the door open with a smile, taking the more precariously balanced plate from her, “thank you. Thank you so much, you really didn’t have to…”

“Fuck off, just fuckin’ eat. And invite me in.”

He steps out of the doorway, already eating off the plate as she moves past him with a shit-eating grin on her face, “smells like fuckin’ in here,” raising an eyebrow at the bare mattress with the balled up sheets on the foot as she hands the second plate over to Mickey. He plops down and immediately starts stuffing his face. He’s fuckin’ starving and he’s fuckin’ exhausted. Her fingers meet the back of his head, ruffling his hair, “nice sex hair you lazy little bottom.”

His middle finger responds for him since his mouth is too busy plowing through room-temperature dinner. But it doesn’t matter, it tastes fuckin’ amazing.

“Speaking of hair,” Ian motions towards Lou’s freshly buzzed head, back to the faux hawk style she was wearing when Mickey met her.

“Tomorrow’s the big start of the season. Don’t need that shit in my way.”

“Shit. Thought that was next week,” Mickey manages between mouthfuls.

She snorts at him, removing the joint from behind her ear, appraising him silently for a moment, “you’re lucky you’re so pretty,” she teases, laughing when he flips her the bird again.

“So how does, um,” swallowing a huge gulp of water, chasing his pills down, “you told me how the fights work, but how does… individually, um, how do you two…”

“Tomorrow night’s a lottery for the newbies. It’ll take for fuckin’ ever to get some ranks. Then the next night start the money rounds. We’re already ranked and won’t have to fight our way up from the bottom, so we’ll see maybe three rounds a piece tomorrow. Night after is the final three fights of the opening week. Big money that night. It’ll slow midway through the season, some new fighters will filter in again. And then the last month or so, the pots are fuckin’ insane. The bids are usually about the same throughout the season, but since pretty boy over here opted out of bids it’s win or come home with empty pockets. And miss out on an evening with Eduardo,” eyebrow arching towards Mickey, she stops long enough to take a toke while Ian’s eyes scan over Mickey’s face with wonder written all over their surface.

“How do the matches work? Weight classes? Fighting style?”

“Nah,” she exhales towards the still open door, “No weight classes. There’s not much here for the heavier weights. It can get pretty brutal but for the most part once they weed out the shit fighters tomorrow it’ll be even matches size-wise. Styles are mixed. Pretty boy’s trained in three styles. Muay Thai: stand-up striking and clinching, punches, kicks, elbows and knees. Krav Maga: efficient and brutal counter-attacks, incapacitating the opponent by any means necessary. My favorite, and our main focus: Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. The smaller, weaker person can defend against a bigger, stronger, heavier opponent is the main concept of BJJ. So if you can take your opponent to the ground you can most likely take them out. Some of the fighters aren’t trained in shit so they’re easy to take out. Towards the end rounds it can get vicious. Usually a couple of cartel-sponsored shitheads are still standing for final rounds. This week I’d say it’d be alright for you to watch since these don’t mean much. But I’m you, I stay home for the rest.”

He watches Ian nod, glad she brought it up since he wasn’t about to say it and end up with Ian all butt-hurt thinkin’ he didn’t want him there or something, “oh, speaking of money, I have another couple hundred to pay on my tab,” he does that half smile thing when the conversation is mildly awkward, and since money is always an awkward topic it deserves the half-smile.

“Told you it don’t matter, I ain’t in a hurry. Just toss it in the drawer whenever,” she sighs, her fingers meet the back of her head, rubbing a little before her face turns towards Mickey, “you missed Rosa. Or, she missed you I should say.”

“Fuck,” doesn’t take long for that to hit bottom with a churn of his stomach. Just talking about wanting to adopt her, and he already missed her for the evening, “she go to bed alright?”

“Fuck if I know,” she winces, like it came out but it didn’t mean to come out all hostile. Mickey knows that feeling and can’t ever fault her for it when it happens, “I don’t know. She was cryin’. She’s always fuckin’ cryin’ at bedtime. Fuck,” she’s chewing on something. Whether it’s her lip or her tongue, he can’t tell.

“Did you talk to her?” 

Eyes narrowing, “no I smacked her and told her to shut the fuck up before she woke up the coyotes. The fuck you think? I might be a cold-hearted bitch but I ain’t heartless. Fuck,” now she jolts a little getting to her feet, “she fuckin’ watched her father and brother get executed. Mother raped and murdered. Sister and her were taken for trafficking, but somehow her sister managed to shove her out of the vehicle after the shitheads made a pit stop in the village.”

His fingers have met his eyelids. Grinding until there’s nothing but spots, but the spots won’t cover the image of that little girl, and the shit Lou just told them, “fuck.”

“What a fuckin’ joke,” she mumbles, pacing now. 

He’s breathing. Forcing himself to breathe. Instead of feeding off her energy. Instead of giving way to the seven-year old version of himself, not letting that surface. But suddenly he doesn’t feel hungry anymore. He feels Ian’s eyes on him but he can’t pry his off his right hand that’s clenched itself into a fist. FUCK U-UP. ‘I’m ‘onna fuck you up you little runt’. No, that’s not rising either. And the first U is all fucked up. From the first time he got his ass beat in prison. The words he took straight out of his father’s mouth, the words that used to leave him shaking and backing himself into a corner. They suddenly meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. And he got it in his head that if he worked hard enough at it, if he kept scraping - fingernails, teeth, whatever - he could eventually wear the letters off. He didn’t make it far before he realized it was useless. It would take more than scraping to get rid of that shit. 

“Fuck,” this time it shakes. But Ian is still watching him. And Ian needs to finish eating, and if Mickey doesn’t act normal and keep fucking eating than neither will Ian, “I’ll talk to her in the morning,” he offers, “she usually stays out once she’s out, huh?”  
“Yeah,” she responds, “but whatever. Get some fuckin’ feds in to bust up the Alvarez boys, just somebody else going to take over. Don’t fuckin’ matter,” she leans out the door, spitting into the dirt, “Mexico, Colombia, fuckin’ LA, streets of Chicago. Don’t make a fuckin’ difference. Out in the open, behind closed doors. All of it. And none of it. Fuck it,” she taps the doorframe, her bare foot making contact with the top step, “I’m out.”

“Yeah,” he hears himself respond. 

And Ian’s quiet, lame, “night,” as the door latches shut behind her. Then his eyes, eyes on Mickey. Always on Mickey, they’re always watching him for a reaction. Like he’s afraid he’s going to get up and fuckin’ run. Or scream. Or find someone to punch. Or maybe punch him.

Deep breath, focus rising. Meeting and holding that green gaze. A nod. Even though he can feel his body firing, muscles twitching, ready to bolt. Or punch. Or shout at the top of his fucking lungs that life’s not fucking fair. And he’ll always be helpless, he’s always been helpless to it. For as long as he can fucking remember. From that very first time Terry punched him in the mouth. Every single fucking day from then until now. And still. Still now. Sitting here staring at a guy, a guy who’s eyes hold the universe, while how many other children right now are getting punched in the mouth by their fathers. While how many little girls are being kidnapped, sold for sex. And what the fuck can he do about it? Try to get some stupid fuckin’ fed through a few rounds of fights tomorrow night, so he can get a hook into the workings of cartel shit. So he can start making his way into the organization, probably spend years working his way to a point where he actually has anything deep enough to take them down. And how many more children will be destroyed before then? How many more families torn apart?

————

“Mickey?” she’s laying on the floor in front of the couch, a coloring book and new box of crayons that Colin stole for her spread out in front of her, “what’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow,” he responds without thinking. Watching the crayons and wishing he could lay down next to her. Wishing he could color alongside her and not get swatted for it.

“Why?” her face turns, all screwed up for a minute, like she was expecting blue to be the answer. Because it’s always the answer that boys give, isn’t it?

“It makes me happy,” he answers without thinking about it. Without thinking about the fact that Terry is sitting right there behind them. Without thinking about the fact that those answers will make him mad. 

The hit is hard and quick. Enough to send his head jerking back and Mandy running to her bedroom screaming as blood drips out of his nose. Looking at his father for an answer, an explanation. Some reason, any reason. But he doesn’t even look angry, telling him, “yellow is for faggots. And happy is for children.”

But I am a child.

He knows better than to touch his face. Somehow being engrained in his head from all the times he saw Dad reach out and smack a bloody lip or bloody nose into one of his brothers. All the times he’d smack them again if they reached to stop the blood. So he sits still and watches his father’s face. 

He’s waiting. Waiting for a hand to come up, waiting for him to cover or protect or stop the blood flow. He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t stop looking. But Terry smacks him again anyway with a snarl before he turns away. This time leaving the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the taste that will linger for the rest of his life.

————

He hears his breath hitch in his chest and he should say something. He should say anything, he should tell Ian why. Why he gets so fucking angry and why he feels so fucking helpless. But this isn’t about him. This is about a little girl who was lost and afraid, and she still is. And he failed her, he forgot about her. 

“Fuck,” his eyes are on his plate again. Mostly empty. And he can’t do it. He can’t put another bite in his mouth. He sets it on the floor, letting his fork clatter and a memory rises hard in his stomach. Threatening his composure in the form of acid hitting the back of his throat. He swallows hard, “I dropped a plate. It broke. Dad slammed me down onto the floor into the broken glass. Ground my face into it. I was five.”

He can’t look up. Knowing too well what he’ll see. He’ll see that face, that expression. That one he wore the day Svetlana became a part of his life. As much as Ian understands, he’ll never fuckin’ understand. What’d Frank ever do? Bloody his nose once? Back him into a wall a handful of times? And not give a fucking shit about having a queer son. So how could he understand? And how could Mickey ever say it all? And watch that face, fuck. That face that is brighter than the fuckin’ desert sun when it’s wearing a smile. And when it’s dark, it’s darker than those wretched cold winter nights when the heat bill wasn’t paid and he and Mandy would huddle under that big quilt of their Mom’s that still smelled like her, listening as Terry crashed through the house on his way out to the bar where the heat was on and he could drink until he passed out in the alley on the way home. Then they’d whisper back and forth until their body heat under the blanket was enough, and they’d ball up together hoping he’d forget they existed by the time he came stumbling home in the morning. 

Then he’s standing in front of Mickey. And his hands are on his head, then his lips are on his head. A quick kiss, like it’ll fix everything. Like that night outside the Alibi. Like that kiss would be enough. Hand sliding through his hair and backing away. Feeling the tension still knotted inside MIckey’s body, knowing a human touch couldn’t fix it now. Knowing nothing he can say will fix it now. 

He starts putting his laundry away. Every sock he matches, lays on the bed, takes a bite of food off his plate. 

“Who the fuck wears socks in this heat?”

He laughs, a little awkward like he hasn’t shaken that last story, but he’s trying, “I guess people who don’t want to get blisters from their running shoes,” turning his head now to look at Mickey, that sort of theatrical shrug and stupid smile he wears when he’s uncomfortable and doesn’t know what expression is appropriate. 

But he’s trying. So maybe Mickey should too, “pussy,” he accuses with a half-assed attempt at a smile before his thumb meets the side of his nose without his permission. Standing up for a pair of pants, taking Ian’s now empty plate and his mostly empty one, “I’m going to take this to the main house.”

And get some fucking air because it’s too fucking hard to breathe in here right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this Ian, who is growing up in front of our very eyes, is much more supportive in the ways Mickey needs, there are also some ways in which he'll never understand the shit Mickey's been through and maybe Mickey will never feel comfortable sharing some of it, or maybe he will, only time will tell. 
> 
> One of the other reasons I thought someone like Lou was a good fit as a friend for Mickey. And maybe Mickey can step up to the plate and give Rosa the nurturing understanding that she would need at this point in her life.


	37. Moonlit Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion.

Moonlit Trail

 

Could have been five minutes, could have been five hours since he watched Mickey’s back as he walked out the door. He’s not sure and he can’t wait any longer. Stepping out into the night after finishing the laundry and putting clean sheets on Mick’s cot. After chewing on his thumb nail for awhile and staring out the window, watching them sitting at the table in silence. Mickey’s hand occasionally rising to rub his face, or thumb at his nose, or grind into his lids. Lou leaned back, ankles crossed, feet bare resting on the table. Her only moves have been to reach out, taking pulls off a bottle of tequila. Beside the bottle are a needle, a bag of powder, a lighter, and a spoon. He’d be blind to never have noticed the track marks in her arm. Old, unused for a long time until recently. Fresh ones popping up now on her flesh like the disease that it is. He’s not asked, knowing it’s not his business. Knowing how the game is played with addicts. Spent his life playing it with Frank, sometimes Lip, sometimes Fiona. 

But right now, it’s unused. Just laid out on the table being stared at. 

He sits without being acknowledged for long enough that he starts to wonder if this is a dream. Or a delusion. But then Mickey’s hand rises, thumbing his nose before falling to Ian’s leg. A quick squeeze and it’s gone. Just enough to spark the heat of knowing he’s alive, awake, and here. 

If they want silence, he’ll stay silent. If the non-vocal support they offer each other is stronger than anything Ian could ever say, then he’s okay with that. Someday maybe Mickey will tell him all of it, even half of it. And if he doesn’t, that’s okay too. As long as he knows he can. He can say it, and Ian won’t pity. He won’t let the horror show in his face as he listens. He won’t try to tell him it’s okay, he’s okay now and Terry can’t hurt him anymore, prison can’t hurt him anymore. Because that’s a fucking lie. Those things will always hurt. Those memories will always be painful. Maybe less so if he talks about it. Maybe not. 

“Charlie died,” she whispers, “found him day before yesterday. Under the crow tree. Stupid fuckin’ birds sounded like they were chanting a fuckin’ prayer. Just sittin’ in their fuckin’ soul tree,” her voice starts shaking with something between laugher and tears, “watching the fuckin’ sky like they were waitin’ for it to open up and swallow the Earth whole,” as she’s talking her fingers are sliding over the items on the table. One by one, fingertips on every surface like she’s feeling the bare flesh of a long lost lover for the first time in years. Then her face twists and her fingers recoil, combing violently through her hair, “Purgatory,” she scoffs, “life is Hell. With tiny moments of Purgatory showing through. A glimmer of fucking Heaven once in a while but if you touch it you get burned. Always runnin’. Chasin’ after something you can’t ever fuckin’ have. And if you touch it you’re fucked. ‘Cause it won’t ever stay,” her voice trails off. Gaze bright, lit with something dangerous now as she scans over the items on the table once more. 

Suddenly they rise, meeting Ian’s and staying there, “you get dark sometimes, yeah? Keep thinking ‘bout how worthless you are, how everyone around you would be better off without you? It shows up in your head. A blade on a wrist. A noose around a neck. A barrel against a temple. A handful of pills. What stops you? One thing, just one thing, huh? Not enough energy to do it. Blade isn’t sharp enough, you’d bleed out too slow and someone would stop it. Or is it somethin’ else? You’ll turn the corner soon enough? You’ll rebound. It’s like a fuckin’ friend, right? Like you know everyone will leave, one way or another, and all you’ll be left with is darkness. But it ain’t scary. Not in the way the footsteps in the hall were,” eyes shifting to Mickey now, “not like the way the headboard hittin’ the wall was in the next room over. Not like the sound of the bathroom door closin’ after the guard left, huh? Like shadows in your mind. Sometimes they follow you around in the daytime too. Whisperin’ in your ear. And you can still feel the way his breath felt on your neck, the way his hand felt on the back of your head. Wake up sometimes, it’s still there. Even when your eyes are wide fuckin’ open.”

She takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly as her right hand darts out. One fluid motion the bag is open and she’s dumping it into the dirt beside her chair. Tequila bottle in her left when she stands, smashing it on a rock and tossing the neck out into the darkness. Shoulders shaking as she lets out an inhuman scream towards the waning moon. It startles Ian and sends a shot of raw pain down his spine. Mickey doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at Ian. Not until the door’s been closed for what feels like forever. Long after she’s disappeared into the house. Finally he wonders towards the table, “that true?”

“What?”

“What she said about suicide?” now those eyes rise. Those pale blue eyes in the dim glow of the moon. Cutting through whatever shield Ian has put up between him and Mick when it comes to the truth about the lows, about how fucking much it hurt and there was no explanation for it that would make any fucking sense to a guy like Mickey. A guy who had it so rough he should feel the shitty way Ian did, he had it so fucking rough he should have been thinking about suicide, about cutting his skin just to watch it bleed; and he never did. He never thought of it. He’d never think of quitting. Of giving in. Of letting that voice in his head override everything else. Because Mickey was strong enough to quiet the doubts, he was always strong enough to override that nagging horrid little voice.

And Ian wasn’t, “yeah.”

He winces and it makes Ian drop eye contact, “how many times?”

“A lot,” it shudders, thinking of that time in the clinic. ‘He’s got me’. No suicide list needed, he had everything he needed in Mickey. And Mickey was strong enough to withstand it. But Ian doubted him and pushed him away. ‘You can’t fix me’. Fuck Monica, “not your fault Mick,” his focus lingers on his hands for a moment, the way they’re playing with the lighter on the table. Always needing something to grip, something to hold, something to destroy. Ian watches his own hand, lifting from his leg, coming down gently on top of Mickey’s fidgety ones as their eyes meet, “not your fault,” he repeats. 

One tiny tear escapes the corner of his eye, his hand pulls back but before it can snag the tear Ian already has it. Wiping it with his index finger, smearing it across his cheek until it’s a moonlit trail on his perfect skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Lou's dialogue is not exactly typical dialogue - but it's fiction so I do what I want. 
> 
> I don't think it would ever happen where Ian and Mickey would just sit down one night and start sorting through everything they've experienced together and separately so sometimes there needs to be that outside influence to kick-start some chatting. And no, it won't all be sad and dark times but those are the ones that probably need to be put to bed the most even though they're the hardest to think about and talk about.


	38. The Breath On Your Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The different breaths on Mickey's neck at night.

The Breath On Your Neck

 

Wide awake. Staring at the ceiling. He should have checked on Rosa. He should have checked on Lou. Maybe he should now, maybe he should get up now and check on them. 

His head turns. Looking across the room to Ian. His eyes open. Watching the ceiling until he feels his gaze and turns. It wasn’t out of anger, or spite, or resentment or anything like that; they just went to their own beds when they came inside. Like all of a sudden there was just too much shit stacked up between them and neither of them could dig their way through to the other side. Neither of them could climb over it tonight. So they’re going to leave it there. 

Maybe they’ll start digging through it tomorrow. Maybe not. But it doesn’t change this, “I love you,” he offers quietly across the distance.

“I love you too,” Ian responds immediately.

“K. Now go to sleep firecrotch. It’s late.”

“I know,” sighing, rolling to his shoulder facing Mickey’s side of the room. 

How fucking stupid. To let himself get excited, to agree to something like marriage and add something like adoption into it when there’s still so much fuckin’ shit between them that they can’t talk about and won’t talk about. And it’s Mickey’s fault. No matter what Ian says. It’s Mickey that can’t seem to let his guard down again. 

Fuck. He rolls to his shoulder. Not the one he normally sleeps on. Facing Ian’s side. Watching his eyes through the dimness of the room. Half his face hidden by his pillow. But the side he can see is exhausted, eyes calm. The galaxy Mickey will never get tired of watching is spinning slowly, easily. Lids starting to grow heavy. He blinks it away. Fuck, the fuckface wants to talk. He thinks the door is open and it’s time to talk. It’s not time to fuckin’ talk. It’s time to sleep, “time to sleep tough guy,” he murmurs. Practically watching the words forming, like a little snake of smoke leaving Mickey’s lips and slithering across the air. Into Ian’s ear, lids lazily closing again, darting open. He’ll play this game. He’ll watch him fight it. And he’ll lose soon enough. 

He hates sleeping on his left shoulder. He used to sleep on his right to watch the door. Every single night. He’d stare at the door until his eyes were too fuckin’ tired to fight it anymore. And now he's just used to it. And it was easy with Ian. Same side he was used to sleeping on. They fit that way. And fuck, it felt good. 

That lid has been closed for an awfully long time. He watches the eye move beneath. A tiny crinkle on his pale skin. Then it relaxes and his breathing shifts. That quickly. 

He waits. Watches. Counts his breaths. Until he knows for certain. He’s out.

Slipping out the door into the moonlit night. Across the yard bare foot. Into the main house. Unsure of where the creaky floorboards are, he’s slow. He knows Lou sleeps with a fan on full blast even when it’s winter and the nights are freezing fuckin’ cold. But Rosa, he’s uncertain. 

Her door is open a crack already. So he leans. Peering in, watching her for a moment. Sound asleep. Calm, even breathing under the shelter of sheets. A worn doll and a love-worn teddy bear tucked in with her, “goodnight sunshine,” he whispers, kissing his fingers and pressing them into the doorframe before he backs out. 

The next room. Door is latched, but he can hear the fan whirring already so he’s not quiet about pushing it open. She’s sprawled the way she always is. Like she’s drunk or high or both. But she’s breathing. No foaming at the mouth. No bloody slit wrists. No rope burns around her neck. Fuck, she’s terrifying. Stepping over, pulling a sheet up over her nearly bare body. His eyes get stuck on the bullet scar once again before the sheet makes it disappear. Leaning down to kiss her temple gently, whispering, “don’t you ever stop fighting. Ever,” leaning out and watching her breath parting her lips for long enough to know it’s going to keep parting her lips. At least for tonight. 

————

Her breath is hot and huffy on the back of his neck. She repositions for like the five hundredth time with a loud fuckin’ sigh. She might as well reach out and fucking poke him every time she moves. Rolling to his back, fingers grinding into his lids until spots rise. Crashing and breaking, before they open. As his hand drops she grasps it. Yanking over to that fucking disgusting thing under her skin that keeps moving and she keeps making him feel it. And it’s fucking gross and he wants to take her out and shove her onto the L tracks. And it doesn’t fucking matter how many times ‘you feel baby’, he’ll never love that baby. Even if by some miracle it does come out lookin’ like him, he’ll never give a fuckin’ shit about that baby. The only thing it will ever be to him is that day. And the days following. And all the beatings he got from not fucking her like he meant it. And that day she sat on the edge of his bed and told him they were having a baby. ‘We’re having baby’, like it was nothing. Like it was certain. Like ‘we’ was a thing. Like ‘we’ were going to fall in love and save each other from the shitty lives we lead. Like ‘we’ were going to make him straight and make her not a fuckin’ whore. Like it wasn’t his last chance at getting something he wanted being torn apart in front of him.

All he ever thought, make it to eighteen and get the fuck out. Make it to eighteen and just fuckin’ walk. No destination. Just leave. Take a backpack full of the old man’s weed, a few guns, and just fuckin’ leave. And while she sat there he thought about how long he could make it on that. And on the two hundred dollars he had stashed in his sock drawer. And his stupid fucking mind thought about Ian. And about how if he just left, if he just walked out that door and never came back, that meant never seeing that ginger fuckhead again. It’s not like he could ask him to come along. To disappear with him. His fucking family would come after him. He had people who cared about it. And it’s not like he gave a shit about Mickey anyway. It was just some stupid puppy love, heartsick teenager thing. First guy he’s fucked that didn’t have grey balls, first guy he’s fucked that didn’t holler stupid shit at him under the bleachers, first guy he’s fucked that wasn’t his fucking boss at the corner store. Of course he thought it was something real. Fuck. He’d grow out of it. But fuck, Mickey wouldn’t. He wouldn’t grow out of it. He’d let that stupid fucker past his carefully constructed armor and now there was no way to get him out from under his skin. 

And if it was his fucking kid, then what? Fuck, then he’s that guy that took off on the kid’s pregnant mom when she was working as a fucking hand-whore to keep a fucking roof over her head. And that’s all the kid would ever know of his father. 

And he got up while she watched him, while she told him, ‘you don’t wear rubber, what do you expect?’. And the acid hit the back of his throat and he picked up his pace. As a vise clamped down on his gut he pressed the bathroom door open. Terry was sitting on the shitter and he aimed for the garbage but didn’t make it. And it splashed Terry’s foot and Terry’s right fist met Mick’s ribs and his left fist met his kidneys as he fell to his knees retching into the garbage can. And he doesn’t remember what the fuck happened after that, but all he could think about was that day. Standing in the store looking at that fuckhead as he grinned and wondered, ‘was I just invited to a sleepover?’. 

But now? Now he’s sitting here with the whore’s sweaty puffy hand grasping his and forcing it to touch her. And his skin is fucking crawling and his right fist is clenched and his left hand is on that disgusting thing that keeps moving. And it feels like an elbow under his palm and his guts clench and churn up the beer he had for dinner. Jerking his hand away, back to work over his lids. He swallows it. And in his stupid closed eyelids is that stupid fuckin’ ginger who he hasn’t seen since he walked out that door for the Army. And where is he now? Fucking his way through basic training. More of that fuckin’ stupid shit about, ‘give it to me soldier’ or whatever the fuck. And maybe Mickey should’ve tried that dumb fuckin’ shit. Maybe that would have made him stay. Or maybe he should have spent that stupid two hundred dollars he was saving dollar by dollar to get the fuck out, maybe he should have spent it on a dinner and a few drinks at some stupid fancy fucking restaurant or whatever the fuck they’re called in places that aren’t the Southside. Like a fuckin’ cafe, or wine bar, or fuckever eatery. Whatever. Maybe he should have done that. 

But he knows now, he knows just like he’s always known, he’s fucked for life. As he listens to that dumb slut next to him sighing again and re-situating a-fuckin’-gain. And what would have happened if he’d stayed anyway? Would they magically have been able to be together? All happy and queer, holdin’ hands walkin’ down the Southside sidewalks shooting rainbows out their asses? Fuck that. And fuck him for not knowing. Not realizing that there was no way out for Mickey Milkovich. There wasn’t a fuckin’ chance of just sending everybody home because he’d been fucked like he wanted to be fucked every single fuckin’ day for the rest of his life, and he’d been kissed like he wanted to be kissed every single fuckin’ day for the rest of his life and it sure in the fuck wasn’t by that stupid whore he was about to marry. 

Fucked for life. So he slides back down into bed. The bed he shares with the whore he married. The whore who keeps thinkin’ that maybe this time, maybe this time when she puts his hand on that fuckin’ creature, this’ll be the time he suddenly wants this. Fuck her. Fuck her for being sold into sex slavery by her fucking father. Fuck her for ending up in the States where she was supposed to be free to be whatever the fuck she wanted to be and she still ended up a fucking hand-whore who was sent over to fuck a faggot straight one day. Fuck him straight with a fuckin’ pistol aimed at her. So fuck her. And fuck this fucking kid for being the one stupid enough to swim to that egg. Like it couldn’t be as fuckin’ high or drunk as the others that were swimming all slow and around in circles. Like it had to be that one stupid sperm with a life-wish. Fuck him. 

But fuck her for sleeping facing him. Facing his way in the dark. So no matter what way he turns she’s there breathing on him. Breathing on the back of his neck. Or his bare shoulder. Fuck her.

————

His eyes flicker open in the darkness. Startled by the sound of someone moving. Eyes dragged over to the source of the sound. Blinking rapidly to focus, deep breath. Just Ian. It’s just Ian moving. He’s rolling onto his back. And he’s still asleep. And now his leg is hanging off the edge of his cot. And his hand is resting on his ribs. And Mickey wishes it was on his ribs, or wrapped in his hand.   
Fuck. Deep breath. Not yet. Give him space. Take some space. Relax. He’s not going anywhere. Not now. 

But at some point in the night when he wakes with someone else’s breath on the back of his neck. Someone’s breath coming out hot and heavy. Someone else as they’re slamming into his body and his face is against the blood-slicked tiled floor. And his whole fucking body is throbbing with pain. And his head is cloudy and he’s slipping in and out of consciousness. 

He wakes with that breath on his neck and those hands on his body. And his own breath coming out hitched and strained. He wakes with his heart lodged in the back of his throat and his body drenched in sweat. He wakes with a start and opened eyes watching him from across the room. 

“Fuck,” his voice shakes and he stumbles to the bathroom. Wetting a washrag with cool water to run over his sweat-soaked skin. Pressing cold water into his eyes. 

Back into the bedroom to the sight of Ian removing yet another set of sheets from Mick’s cot. And his eyes burn and his chest tightens and he reaches out. As his butt lands on Ian’s bed, he reaches for his hand. And when he turns, he reaches for his body. Pulling him close and hiding his face against his bare stomach as Ian’s hands gently run through Mickey’s hair, tilting his head back to look at his face. Leaning down forehead to forehead, “I’m right here Mickey,” gentle whisper against his lips.

“Yeah, for how long this time?” he says it without meaning to say it. 

And he wishes he hadn’t said it because now Ian is pulling back. Face inches away, hands still on Mickey’s jaw, still aiming his gaze. And he’s pretending he’s not hurt, he’s pretending it didn’t feel like a slap in the face. The same way it always feels. 

“Forever Mick. I mean that. And it’ll take forever to prove that to you. I’ve left you more times than I care to remember, but I’m not this time. I won’t. I’ve lied to you more times than I care to remember too, but this is honest,” hands sliding through Mickey’s hair now, forehead meeting forehead, breath meeting breath, “I love you. I never said it enough. I’ll never be able to say it enough even if I say it every single hour of every single day for the rest of my life. I love you. I’m not leaving.”

And fuck he wants to believe that. He wants to believe that when he’s old as fuck it’ll still be Ian’s arms wrapped around his chest at night. It’ll still be Ian’s lips against his every single day. It’ll still be his smile, the first thing he searches for every morning, his smile. It’ll still be the sound of his breath behind him, the feel of it on his neck. It’ll still be him stealing sips out of his coffee mug in the morning. It’ll still be him telling those stupid corny jokes that make him laugh that stupid dopey laugh. 

But Jesus, fuck, he just keeps seeing the back of his head. He just keeps watching him walk away. He just keeps standing there tongue-tied and gut-twisted as he watches him walk away. And maybe he is still just that seven year old glued to the chair at the kitchen table sitting in a puddle of his own piss as he watches his only version of love being shattered in front of his face. And maybe he always will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought about how awful it must have been for Mickey to find out Svetlana was pregnant, and how awful it must have been to sleep with her in the months after their wedding, until I was writing this fic. Every canon fill-in I've done for this one makes me love Mickey that much more, which I didn't even realize was possible.


	39. Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening night and a discussion that needs to happen.

Don’t

 

“Mikhailo,” a short, dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed man calls out. Rushing over to where Mickey and Ian are standing in the crowd. So far it’s been more like a mixer, a social gathering to introduce new and old fighters to the crowds that will later be betting on them or bidding for them. 

“Mikhailo,” he gushes his name like it’s the finest word that’s ever been on his tongue, taking Mickey’s hand and pressing about twenty kisses into the back of it, “my sapphire-eyed god. My heavenly body. My celestial being. I feel it already Mikhailo, like the doors to heaven are opening and I’m being bathed in your glorious golden glow, I…”

“Ain’t up for bids anymore Eduardo,” he cuts him off as his cheeks are starting to turn the most adorable shade of pink Ian has ever seen.

“No,” he gasps, hand landing over his heart, “no! Say it isn’t so,” acting like he’s been stabbed in the chest, “no. This is me breaking and bleeding at your feet Mikhailo. Say it isn’t so. I was seeing the doors to heaven opening with a bright blinding light and now I’m feeling the grips of Hell on my heals, dragging me down…”

“Shut the fuck up,” but he’s smirking, trying to hide a laugh. Does he like this shit? And who the hell is this guy? Why’s he still hanging onto Mickey’s hand? Does he know Mickey? Does he know him in the way Ian knows him? Has he touched him in the way Ian has? 

“Why Mikhailo? Why would you do this to me?”

He shrugs, thumb jerking towards Ian with the only explanation needed, “my partner.”

His smooth dark-chocolate eyes land on Ian with a smile rising and another theatrical gasp, “a matchstick. Fire in his crown,” his hand finally releases Mickey’s, but now it’s grasping Ian’s, “Ra, the Egyptian God of sun and radiance. He who walks with a sun disk crowning his head, every sunrise and sunset a chance for renewal. What is your name my Ra?”

“Ian,” clearing his throat, trying to swallow the sudden discomfort at this man’s strange dialogue and overly dramatic personality.

“Be still my heart,” looking with awe at Ian’s face, “Ian meaning gift from God. Mikhailo meaning who is like God,” he grabs Mickey’s hand again, now grasping both in his soft ones, “My Horus, god of sky, war, protection, and light; my Mikhailo. You have brought me a gift. This gift of fire, sun, radiance from a man of sky and light. My gods,” he practically squeals, “please please I beg of you, let me paint you both. Let me paint you both together. I will pay a fortune and make an even larger fortune for just one day of your time. Just one afternoon. Only one day…”

His train of thought is lost when Lou’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, “the fuck you doin’ Eddie? He ain’t up for bids this year, don’t get your panties in a bunch for nothin’.”

“My Sekhmet, my goddess, my Lioness. The powerful one…” his words continue to spew from his mouth but Ian stops paying attention. 

Looking to Mickey for further explanation, but he waves him off, “let’s find some seats before the first rounds start.”

Trying to shake the insecurity rising, trying to stifle the jealousy that Mickey’s life did in fact continue here without Ian in it. ‘You think my life hasn’t moved on without you?’ echoing around in his head, he didn’t understand how much that fucking hurt. Until now. Until he’s begun to see it. ‘I bottom now’, nothing like throwing salt into an open wound. 

I’ve moved on and I bottom now Mick. While you’ve been locked up, behind bars and cinderblock. Alone and terrified. Beaten and raped. And I’ve moved on. And I’ve moved on to boyfriends who take me on dates, and don’t hit me. Instead they cheat on me and manipulate me. And I did something for him that I never in a million years would have considered doing for you when we were together. Not like you’d ever ask even if it was something you wanted. Because you never asked me for a damn thing. Because I was the only person in your life that cared about you and you’d do anything to keep me. 

“Mickey?” it comes out so quietly that he can’t even hear himself over the din of the crowd starting to filter in. Of course Mickey didn’t hear him, “Mickey?” louder this time. But still too quiet and now there’s someone announcing the first rounds. And people are getting to their feet, there’s shouting, jeering. And now Lou is making her way over to the empty seat on the far side of Mickey. And now they’re talking. And the match in front of them is starting and Ian’s head is spinning. Tires spinning on ice. Around and around and around. Making no progress, no forward motion. Stuck in place. Spinning with what-ifs and should-haves and apologies that need to fucking come out and they keep not coming out. 

And he’s still stuck in his own head when Mickey’s hand clenches down on his arm, his face leaned in close to his ear, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” leaning out to look at him. Forcing a nod, “of course I am.”

“If it’s too much, you can…”

“No. No, I’m good.”

He nods, but he’s not convinced. Squeezing again, eyes so fucking bright in here, “well we gotta head back and get changed and warmed up. If you, uh…”

“I’m good Mick,” he laughs, trying to shrug off his concern. 

“Okay. Rocky and Martin will be over here in a minute, so…”

“Yeah. Okay. Just go,” his hand lands on top of Mickey’s. It’s probably slimy with sweat by now, “don’t worry about me. You’ve got a job to do.”

The exhale leaves his nose slowly as he scans Ian over again. Not wanting to go, not wanting to leave him here alone. But he can’t always cater to Ian’s needs. He has to live his own life too. It can’t be Ian over Mickey every single moment of every single day. He nods again, starting to feel like a stupid bobble-head doll as he watches those ocean eyes, letting himself laugh when Lou smacks his ass hard and tells him assertively, “gotta move pretty boy. Kiss your princess if you must, but accept your token of affection after the match please.”

He’s shocked speechless when he does. Fisting the front of Ian’s shirt to drag him to his level. He leans in and kisses him. Right here in public. Right here as a top-tiered fighter who is about to get into a cage with all eyes on him. A rough cheek tap and then he’s gone. 

The world is closing in on him and he knows exactly why Lou told him not to come to the fights once the season gets into full motion. This is enough. This is too much. It’s different than watching Southside Mickey, he’s not a tough little thug in the ring. He’s trained and composed. He’s gorgeous and every time his opponent lands a hit it makes Ian’s throat constrict and his body ache. Thank fuckin’ Christ that it’s just a ‘dance round’ like Lou called it earlier. The hits are more for show than for damage at this point. The lower tier fighters having gone through it already, making their way to the ranks. They’re tired and beat and taking on a fresh top rank this late in the night would be crude. These are the main show fighters, they’re not looking to harm each other tonight. Not until the money is in it. And Ian won’t be able to watch that. 

Even with Rocky sitting next to him, talking him through every move and explaining the positions with a mixture of Spanish and English, he still feels like he’s about to burst out of his chest and lose his fucking mind when the match is finally called. It’s Mickey’s win and he’s barely bloodied but it’s still enough to send a rush of protectiveness through his core at the same time as the images rise. Mickey’s face all bloodied and bruised, begging with his eyes for forgiveness and understanding that Ian couldn’t fucking see as Svetlana lowered herself onto his lap. Bloodied and broken as they stood outside the Alibi, defeat rolling off his shoulders. Hurt and confused, bloodied again as he looked at Ian in the dugout. He was just trying to fucking help. 

————

“Yes,” he moans beneath Ian, “right there.”

Leaning into his elbow with all his weight, grinding into the sore left shoulder. He’d be lying if he said that moan didn’t send a tingle to his dick. But he’s certain Mickey will not be in the mood for fucking tonight. He’s got to be exhausted, even if they were just dance rounds. 

“Mmm, yes,” muffled into the pillow.

Fuck, why doesn’t he ever make those kinds of noises when they’re fucking? Ian would blow his load so fucking quick. On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing he’s not vocal. Ian loses his mind fast enough, he doesn’t need to be spurred on by moans, “so, um, what you said about not entering the bids, that true? That’s ‘cause of me?”

“‘Course it is.”

“But why? If it’s like dates, or…”

“Still cheating. Even if I’m gettin’ paid for it. Some old rich lady takes me to some fancy dinner, some dude paints me nude, some asshole wants me to be the eye candy who’s ass gets grabbed as I usher guests at an event. Cheating is cheating whether it’s paid or…”

“I did,” he blurts.

Silence for a moment before he snorts, “no shit firecrotch.”

“It was more than the porn Mick, I cheated…”

“Don’t give a fuck Ian. Don’t want to hear about it.”

“But I,” it sits on his chest all the fucking time. And it needs to be acknowledged and apologized for properly, “when I worked at the club…”

“Ian,” he rolls suddenly, eyes iced over with that coldness reserved only for moments like these. Where he can’t say any of the shit he should say and he can’t blame Ian for any of the shit Ian did. Because he knows it was the disorder, but Ian is the disorder and he has to know and he has to accept an apology, “I don’t fuckin’ care man. I don’t want to hear about how many dicks you sucked and how many asses you fucked and how many cocks you jerked for money. I don’t give a fuckin’ shit,” but the rise in his voice and tension in his shoulders as he jerks to his feet is a clear giveaway that it still fucking hurts.

“But that’s it Mick,” trying to keep calm in his tone, trying to keep his demeanor open and relaxed, “it was me. It was me that you trusted. You trusted that I’d never hurt you and I did so much that…”

“Fuck Ian, stop.”

“No. You need to know, we need to talk about this. You need to understand it wasn’t your fault…”

“Fuck off with that,” he growls, pacing now. Hands rising every so often to rub his eyes and push his still wet hair away from his eyes, “not your fault Mickey. Not your fault,” he mimics.

“It’s not,” calm. Keeping his voice calm. Staying seated on the cot. Knowing if he lets himself get angry, if he raises his voice it will only serve to fuel the fire that is Mickey Milkovich, “hyper-sexuality is a compulsion. It can’t be sated by anyone. It’s not even about the pleasure, it’s not about the act. It had absolutely nothing to do with you. You need to know that Mick. You need to know that you were more than enough, you have always been more than enough, and I know I made you feel…”

“Fuck you,” he stops moving suddenly. Eyes flared now with so much pain it slices right through Ian’s heart and soul, “you have no idea,” voice dropping to a deadly level, “no idea how you made me feel.”

Silence hangs between them. Silence, the cloak of invisibility that is draped over that fucking elephant that has been sitting between them for so fucking long. And now Mickey’s facade is crumbling. His face betraying his mind, showing his hand, admitting his emotions without voicing a single word. Tears springing to the surface of that ocean. Mouth clamped shut, lips trembling as he presses them together. Nostrils flaring uncontrollably before he turns to hide his expression. His hand rises, Ian hears it wipe across his nose, “you really want to do this tonight Ian? You really want to know how it made me feel? Really?”

Deep breath, gripping to the remaining calm before it can crumble, “we can’t move forward in a healthy way until we tear out all the old stitches and help each other heal the wounds we created.”

Ian knows Mickey wants to snark back something like ‘wow that was deep doc Gallagher’, but he fights it. Listening as he takes a few deep breaths. Gathering himself, forcing the anger back down to his belly before he starts haltingly, “I watched Terry smash my mother’s brains in on the kitchen counter when I was seven. Terry hit me the night before for bein’ queer. Mom made me promise to keep that shit hidden from him if I was still attracted to boys when I grew older. She told me she loved me exactly as I am and then his hand appeared, grabbing her head and,” his voice chokes off and he won’t turn to look at Ian. Thinking he’ll be met with pity. And shock. And all the emotions that are churning in Ian’s guts but he won’t let them surface this time. Not tonight.

“And then it was ten fuckin’ years later in the dugout when your dumbass kissed my shoulder. Ten fuckin’ years before someone accepted me for who I was. Ten fuckin’ years before someone touched me again just because I was there and they wanted to touch me. When everything for those ten years between those two moments were,” hands rising to smear the tears across his cheeks that are certainly falling freely now, “fuck,” voice shaking, breath shaking.

It buds in Ian’s chest. The tingles of pain starting to spread from Mickey’s body to Ian’s. Slowly at first like a tiny wave on the surface of an otherwise calm water.

“I don’t fucking care Ian. I don’t care how many other men you were with while we were together. I knew. I’m not fucking stupid. At what point in our relationship were we ever faithful, huh? You were fucking Kash when we started hooking up. I got fuckin’ shot for it, not like I couldn’t know,” his hands rise again, “the cheating later, sure, after I came out, that shit hurt. But I was still fucking married. Not like I was fucking her, but still,” his voice won’t stop shaking and all Ian wants to do it walk over to him and hold him. He wants to take him in his arms and never let go. But that is not what Mickey wants right now. It might be the last thing he wants.

“That wasn’t the worst thing,” now his shoulders are shaking and Ian’s insides are trembling. Knowing what’s coming, trying so hard to brace for it, “I got used to not being alone when we were together. And then I was in prison. You couldn’t lie to me and you couldn’t tell me the fucking truth either. Fuck,” tension and anger starting to bubble. Rising in his taut muscles, red with marks that will be bruises tomorrow, “I was so fucking alone. Not a single fucking visit,” choking off. He takes a moment, “even Svetlana stopped coming when she couldn’t make anymore money off me and her fucking deals. And then those fuckers started coming after me. I was such an easy fuckin’ target. Little fuckin’ queer with a dude’s name tattooed on my chest. It was like I was askin’ for a beat-down. Fuckin’ tat might as well just say ‘rape me’,” he snorts it like he’s joking but Ian’s stomach has worked it’s way to the back of his throat and he can’t fight the aching burn behind his eyes anymore, “it was just like Terry. I didn’t even fight back. ‘Cause I didn’t matter. Not to anyone,” it drops to a whisper, “you didn’t have to fuckin’ be faithful for eight fucking years, you weren’t even faithful when I was around. I didn’t expect it. I just, fuck,” his fingers are grinding so hard into his eyes it’s making Ian wince, “I just wanted to see you sometimes. I wanted to hear your fuckin’ voice. I wanted to,” the anger boils over and his fists fly. Target of choice is the dresser at the foot of his bed. 

Ian flinches every single time it makes contact. And every single hitched breath that parts Mickey’s lips is another gut-wrenching shot of raw pain through Ian’s body. Everything has burst inside of Mickey. The tears and snot flowing freely now down his face, eyes lit with anger and deep rejection. Frustration, years of feeling utterly alone and unloved. Feeling like he was nothing more than the dog shit tracked in on the bottom of someone’s shoe. The kind that lingers deep in the treads until it eventually dries and disintegrates into the grass one day at the end of summer. 

He doesn’t stop until his body gives out. Sitting on the floor with his head in his bloody hands, ribs moving to a spastic rhythm of pain and exertion. 

“I just wanted to know that I was still alive. And I still meant somethin’ to someone. Even if it was just a friend.”

He lets the silence linger. Lets it roll in the space between them as Mickey’s ragged breathing evens out. 

Fuck, he wants to ask him to look at him. ‘Would you at least look at me?’ like it would help. Like it would help to see the reflection of his pain in the face of the one person he ever loved. Like it would help to see the tears rolling down Ian’s cheeks too. Like it would in any way help to see that Mickey’s pain is Ian’s pain. 

“Mickey?” it sounds weak and strangled as he starts shifting on the cot. 

“Don’t,” there it is. The punctuation to their relationship. ‘Don’t do this’, ‘don’t’, ‘if you give half a shit about me then don’t do this’, ‘don’t touch me’. 

Don’t. Fuck. And he never fucking listened to all the fucking times he said don’t without speaking it. Don’t hurt me. Don’t leave me. Don’t stop loving me. 

“I won’t,” he promises, “but I’m right here when you decide that it’s okay to look at me again. I’m right here when you decide it’s okay to touch me again. If you want space,” his breath shudders, “I will give it to you. If you want to be alone, I will walk out that door.”

“Don’t walk,” panic rising, “out,” choking off and disappearing into his fucked up hands.

“I won’t. If you don’t want me to. Whatever you need me to do Mick. I’m right here. Just say the word. Or don’t say a fucking thing and I’ll sit here and wait. Either way. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, that hurt a little. Or kind of a lot. 
> 
> Necessary.


	40. Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey processing his emotions.
> 
> You already know I'm not opposed to using fuck a lot. Like a lot. But this chapter takes the fuck cake and runs away with it.

Fuck

Fuck him. Fuck him for making him think about this shit. Fuck him for making him talk about this shit. Fuck him for thinking it needed to be processed. And fuck Doc for telling Mickey like a year ago that he needed to process his feelings. Fuck Ian for getting into his head and making him think maybe he should process this fucking shit. And fuck Doc for getting into Ian’s head and making him think he needs to take responsibility for his actions while manic that hurt the people around him. And fuck Ian for wanting to take responsibility. 

Fuck. 

Fuck everything.

He watches his hands lower from his face. They’re fucked for sure. And he’ll still fight tomorrow night. ‘Cause he fuckin’ has to. ‘Cause this is the first time in his life he’s ever belonged. And fuck Ian for showing up here and fucking that up. Fuck him for sitting in the front row tonight watching Mickey like he was the greatest thing he’d ever seen in his life. And flinching whenever Mickey got hit, like it physically hurt Ian too. Fuck him for bringing this shit up. 

Fuck him. 

Fuck him because now Mickey can’t look at him. He can’t look at him and chance that fuckin’ expression on his face. That one he wore sitting in that fuckin’ chair watching Svetlana grind on him. Fuck that expression.

And fuck him now for sitting there all quiet letting Mickey have his fucking space. Fuck him for not talking or shouting or punching like he used to. Like he used to push Mickey to his fucking brink, callin’ him a pussy or telling him to fag bash. Fuck him. 

Fuck him for suddenly being mature enough to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up when he should. 

And fuck him for not leaving this time. For not walking away. Again. Fuck him for saying he’d stay. And now he’s actually staying. Fuck him.

And fuck Mickey. Fuck Mickey for letting that idiot get under his skin in the first place. Fuck him for not kicking him in the shin when he very first kissed his shoulder. Fuck him for letting himself get all soft and squishy on the inside every time he looked at him. Fuck him for becoming the putty in Ian’s hands, the doormat to wipe his feet on. And why? ‘Cause he was fuckin’ fragile and Mickey didn’t want to see him in pain, he wanted to blanket him and put a fuckin’ shield up around him to keep the world out when his mind was too frantic to do it himself. And fuck Mickey for wanting to protect him. Fuck Mickey for wanting to see him get better and take his meds and his fuckin’ B vitamins. Fuck B vitamins. 

Fuck Sammi. Fuck Debbie for her stupid fucking revenge plan. And fuck Mickey for actually doing it. Fuck him for not doing it right and actually offing the bitch, dumping her in the river with weights on her ankles. Fuck the river. Fuck the city. Fuck Chicago. 

And fuck, Mickey doesn’t want to go back there. Not for a week, or a weekend, or a day, or a fuckin’ minute. He’s got nothing to go back for. Fuck Ian for having a family that cares. Fuck them. 

Fuck Terry for not caring. Fuck his mother for caring too much. Fuck Mickey for saying he wanted to marry Matthew Bowden when he grew up. Fuck Matthew Bowden. He’s probably married to Angie Zago by now with five little hood rats runnin’ around barefoot, and they probably keep their Christmas lights up year-round. And they probably have a fuckin’ dog that wears booties in the winter. And he probably works construction and drinks too much beer. He’s probably got really hot shoulder muscles and a beer gut. Fuck him. Fuck Angie. 

And fuck Ian. For being so fucking oblivious to the world around him. For thinking that Mickey had a fucking choice. At any fucking point. Fuck him. And fuck him for having such pretty fuckin’ eyes. And fuck that stupid fucking galaxy that Mickey sees spinning on those fucking green irises every single fucking time he looks at him. Like every fucking star is something great and amazing that he sees in Mickey only. And no one else can see those stars. Fuck him for that. 

Fuck Lou for seeing it too. For seeing that Mickey was worth something. For seeing that he could hold his own and scrap his way through life in Mexico. Fuck her for thinking he stood a fuckin’ chance of getting his fuckin’ life under control and learning a healthy fuckin’ outlet for all his fucking anger that actually seemed to be working. And now his fucking hands hurt like fuck. And he won’t be able to fight tomorrow. But fuck her for showing him a galaxy worth of possibilities that exists in him.

And fuck Rosa for all those little stars that have started twinkling when she looks at him too. Like she sees it too. Like she sees that he’s capable of taking care of her. Of loving her and protecting her. Like she sees that he’s worth those stupid fuckin’ adorable little smiles that have become so fuckin’ common lately. And fuck Mickey for reacting to those smiles. 

Mostly fuck Ian. Fuck him for…

“Mick?” it’s soft and caring, and…

“Fuck you.”

Seriously. Fuck him for caring. Fuck him for giving a shit. And fuck those fucking tears that are starting to drip down Mickey’s face again. Fuck Ian for making him cry like a fuckin’ bitch right now. 

“Fuck feelings.”

“Okay,” it’s got a little laugh in it and fuck him for that because now Mickey’s got a little laugh in his tears and he’s getting to his fucking feet. Fuck his feet for taking the steps over to Ian. And fuck Ian for standing up when he’s near. And fuck Mickey for stepping into him and laying his head on his chest. His fucking chest and listening to his fucking heart and feeling his fucking arms wrapping around him gently, sweetly, tenderly. Fuck his lips for meeting the top of Mickey’s head. Fuck his nose for taking a deep inhale of Mickey’s scent. Fuck that ginger for always sniffing him like he’s the best thing he’s ever smelled in his life. 

And fuck Carl for asking, ‘do you love Mickey?’. And fuck Mickey for already knowing the answer to that even though all Ian said back was, ‘I like how he smells’. And fuck Ian for not just saying, ‘yes’. Would it have been so fucking hard to admit that then? Would it have been so fucking hard for either of them to ever say those three fucking words at a time when they weren’t tearing each other’s hearts out of their chests?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers gently.

“Fuck you.”

“I know.”

Fuck him for knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that's a pretty accurate way for Mickey to process some feelings. Fuck feelings.
> 
> Quick personal note - I wrote this chapter on a day that I was standing in fresh snow up to my waist with double birds aimed at the sky shouting 'fuck you mother nature' that morning. So this chapter may have saved me from complete emotional break-down. It felt fuckin' good. Fuck.


	41. More Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Ian needs to say.

More Like Me

 

Burying his face in the back of Mickey’s neck, taking a deep breath, finding his center through the buzzing still happening in his head. He’s tired. Mickey is exhausted. But they’re both awake. 

It felt like it took an hour to get all the splinters out of Mickey’s hands. He nearly had to tie him down to get him to sit down and relax while Ian cleaned up the mess. And then he was shocked when Mickey laid down on Ian’s cot. Waiting for him. Hands wrapped and iced. 

Didn’t say a word the whole time. And now he’s snuggled into him trying to avoid any sore spots on his body. Damn it, he shouldn’t have pushed it the night before another round of fights. Especially since tomorrow matters. 

Maybe he should have said something. Maybe he still should. Something that might explain not seeing him. Something better than, ‘it was hard seeing you through the glass’. What a fucking joke. 

“Is it too much?” wondering suddenly.

“Fuck you,” grumbling barely audibly.

“I mean, is it too much to get over? I don’t even, I mean, fuck. Can we even…”

“Fuck you Gallagher. I’m so fucking tired. If it was too much to get over, then I’d never have gone to you when I busted out. If it was too much to get over, then you’d never have come here to find me.”

That’s true. It’s true. And he shouldn’t tell him this, this thing that he’ll think was his fault for not being there, but this thing that made Ian stay away, “I, um, hit another debilitating low. Um, after I broke up with you and you were going through charges and processing and in jail. And I couldn’t get out of bed. Like that time with you. I had stopped taking the meds when I went off with Monica. And then I broke up with you. And it hit me when you weren’t there. And it fucking hurt, and it was my fault. But it hurt and I crashed. There was no one there, I mean Debbie and Carl tried. They forced me to eat and stuff, but there was no one there to understand. To make me feel like it was okay to feel shitty and it was okay to just lay in bed, like you did. You didn’t make me feel broken. I was wrong when I said that. You didn’t want to fix me, you wanted to help me. I didn’t realize it until you weren’t there and I was stuck in bed. Feeling like shit and feeling alone. When you weren’t there to lay behind me and whisper to me about how it was okay to feel like shit but I still needed to eat and I still needed to drink water and I still needed to let you wash me. And no one was there to wash me when I didn’t have the energy to do it myself. No one was peeling the dirty sheets off under me and over me, wiping me down with a warm washrag and brushing my teeth and dragging clean underwear up my legs. And no one was there to put clean sheets back under me and grunt about me being too fucking heavy and not helping, but running a hand through my hair and kissing my forehead and telling me it was okay to feel like shit.”

He burrows further into Mickey and pulls his body closer, feeling Mickey’s breathing starting to break again, starting to give in to sadness, “I thought you were better off. Better off without having to take care of me. Even if you were in prison you were better off without me. I was a burden. I didn’t want you to take care of me, I didn’t want to admit I needed to be taken care of. Even if I’d stayed on the meds then, just during the adjustment period I’d still be a burden on you. I was, I was an asshole to you about it the first time. Acting like it was your fault I couldn’t get hard, like it was your fault for treating me different, like it was a bad thing for you to be concerned about me, like you were an asshole for wanting me to take care of myself.”

A deep breath of the scent of him, wondering again why the hell he kept coming back after all the times Ian treated him like shit, admitting for the first time, “I was fucking terrified Mick. I was terrified of the diagnosis and what it meant for me and for you. For the rest of our lives. It felt like I was staring down the barrel of a shotgun and I didn’t want that for you too. I couldn’t take a step back and take it slow, I couldn’t do the whole one day at a time thing because it felt so fucking permanent and so fucking big. And you had stayed with me. Through the highs and the debilitating lows. The paranoia, breaks with reality. I was a fucking psychopath half the time and you stayed with me. And part of me hated you for that. I was so unlovable but you did love me anyway,” voice shaking now. Hands sliding across Mickey’s chest, resting there above his heart. His beautiful loving heart.

“When I finally got out of bed that time and I realized you were gone. I couldn’t have you. I couldn’t lean on you and rely on you. Then I was so mad, I was so angry that you had done whatever stupid thing you had done to get yourself locked up for ten fucking years. That it was ten fucking years that I would keep living my life with a huge part of my soul missing, and seeing you through the glass would only serve as a reminder that you were missing. It would only make me fully realize that I couldn’t touch you and I couldn’t kiss you. That you couldn’t kiss my forehead when I was feeling like shit and tell me it was okay. That you couldn’t grab the bat out of my hand when I swung it at my little sister. That you couldn’t protect me from myself. I had to do that. I had to protect myself and my family from me. And I had to protect you. You’re right, I couldn’t tell you the truth and I couldn’t lie either. I couldn’t sit there every week and not feel so fucking guilty for being the reason you were even in there in the first place. I couldn’t look at you, knowing you were dying in there. And pretend it wasn’t killing me too. I couldn’t let you see that,” his voice has died down to a whisper as he nuzzles Mickey’s neck with his nose, “but I never stopped loving you. I don’t want you to ever think there was a single moment from the time I was fifteen years old until now, that I didn’t love you.”

Mickey’s head moves. Nodding against Ian’s face and his wrapped hands rise like they’re going to wipe tears off his cheeks but Ian beats him to it. Running his fingers through the moisture that he hates to see but knows Mickey needs to feel. Needs to know. 

Now he should be quiet, he should let Mickey rest. He needs to sleep. But he doesn’t want to go to sleep on a sour note, or a sad note, with tears drying on his lover’s cheeks. They’re finally talking instead of yelling, instead of fucking out their emotions. Instead of punching things, or each other. Instead of throwing insults and ultimatums, walking out the door.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

“Do you believe in shut the fuck up?” his voice strained a little but an annoyed laugh exiting his mouth at the same time. 

“Like someone you feel like you can’t be whole without.”

“That’s fucking stupid. I was born whole. You were born whole.”

“Yeah but it’s like, I don’t know, like I can be…”

“You feel more like yourself when I’m around. I feel more like myself when you’re around. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

He sighs a laugh, taking note of the goosebumps that rise on Mickey’s flesh. Nudging him with his nose until he turns his face. Leaning over him, forehead to forehead, “I love you,” tilting to press into a kiss. Soft, gentle. So grateful to the universe for giving him this man. So grateful to this man for giving him so many fucking chances. So grateful to Purgatory and the crows for leading him back to this man for one last chance. One final chance to do things right. To do things permanently. Drawing back long enough to tell him, “you do.”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel more like me.”

“Okay now shut…”

Cutting off his words by pressing into his lips again. Not for long. Just long enough to let his taste and scent invade every single nook and cranny of Ian’s brain. Long enough to coat his senses with Mickey before he leans out, nuzzling into his neck when his face turns forward once again, “the fuck up and go to sleep,” finishing his sentence.

“Fuckever,” grunting at him with a sigh that sounds pretty fucking content. And his body feels pretty fucking relaxed in Ian’s arms. And pretty much like it’s that missing part, that one that made Ian leave his life behind and take off for the border without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read that people with a diagnosis similar to Ian's usually fixate on one particular care-giver. Which no surprise, for him would be Mickey. So not only Mickey as lover, partner, family but also as caregiver disappearing from his life would definitely shake his world.


	42. Fuck Cycles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of Ian's depression.
> 
> A little talk about cycles.

Fuck Cycles

 

The baby is in his hands. She said something about going to work. He heard her. But he didn’t listen. All he could do was stare at the baby. Holding it out, away from his body, like it’s a bag of smelly garbage. It’s head is all leaned to the side even with Mickey’s fingers bracing his neck. Big stupid blue eyes that look just like Mickey’s. Just like Mickey’s mother. 

His chest is cloudy. Ears fuzzy. Unsure of what to do with this thing. This little living breathing thing that’s looking at him with a face full of trust and innocence. And all Mickey can think is how much he fucking hates him. He wants to set him on the street and leave him there. Or put him in a box and bring him to the fire-station. Or the church. But then Svetlana would bash his brains in while he was sleeping. He’s surprised she hasn’t yet as is. 

“Fuck,” he looks at the kid, wanting to tell him now. Tell him now that he’ll always hate him. Nothing will ever change that. But now his eyes are getting all fucking big and his cheeks are turning pink. Mickey’s certain this is not going to end well but the kid erupts from both ends before he can dump him on the floor and run. Like a bomb he couldn’t dismantle going off in his hands. And then the stupid fucking thing smiles. It’s all crooked and his cheeks are all fat. He’s covered in titty milk spew and yellow shit is now leaking down his fat fucking thighs. And he’s smiling. 

“Twisted little fucker,” shaking his head to himself as he feels the spew soaking through his t-shirt. 

He pushes the bedroom door open with his foot. Not really trying to be quiet anymore, but trying not to be too insanely loud either since he flinches every time Mickey even speaks at a normal volume. Looking at his long skinny form under the sheets makes Mickey’s chest feel tight and his mouth taste sour. It’s been two weeks. And it still hurts. He keeps expecting him to just get up one day, wake up and be annoyingly happy. 

It stinks in here. It has for a week. It smells like person. Tang of sweat even though he’s shivering more often than not and burrowing himself under the covers. That odor that emits off a person who’s been sleeping for too long, enveloping the room even when the door is open. Leaving the door open because whatever Fiona said about suicide makes Mickey think he’ll get up one day to go for the knives. He locked up all the guns and drugs. But Svetlana nearly stabbed him when he tried to hide all the kitchen knives. And her razor. Not that she uses it nearly as often as she should. 

“Guess it’s time for baths all around,” setting the gross shit-stained baby on the gross dirty bed. Getting a sour whiff of himself when he pulls the messed t-shirt off over his head. Fuck, he’s not sure when he last showered either. That’ll have to wait. 

“Don’t fuckin’ roll over fatty,” he tells the kid who is gurgling something towards the ceiling as his arms fling out in time with his fat fucking legs. Gross, that’s what he was doing inside her body when she kept forcing Mickey to touch her. 

“Fuck,” a shudder rolls down his spine and he steps out of the room. Fuck, this fucking tub is gross. But it’s cleaner than that gross fucking baby. And it’s cleaner than Ian. How the fuck do you bathe a fucking wiggly little lump of fat that can’t even hold it’s own head up? Fuck. Maybe he should call Debbie. Fuck, she’s probably in school. 

“Well it can’t be that fuckin’ hard,” turning on the faucet and heading back to the bedroom, “alright tough guy,” as he enters, “time for a…” cut off in his throat when he sees that he’s moved. They both have. His heart leaps up into his windpipe, watching Ian’s hand gently stroking the baby’s fat belly. Up and down while the baby with the stupid name gurgles happily, his fat head rolled to the side to watch Ian’s face. Jesus Christ that baby looks tiny under Ian’s big hand. He’s not sure which one of them looks more fragile though, “bath,” finally falls out his mouth when Ian’s dull deadened eyes rise. Fuck they’re dark, they’re so dark they don’t even look green anymore. They look absent of all color. It’s the first time he’s looked at them in a few days and it sends a fuckin’ shot of raw pain right through his core. 

“Okay,” he starts over to the bed, trying to calm the shit that’s rising in his chest and throat. Fuck that shit, Mickey doesn’t feel this. Not right now. He’s bathing a fucking shit-stained baby and then putting it in that stupid collapsible thing that he’s supposed to sleep in that has that stupid dangling thing with stuffed jungle animals on it, the one Debbie brought over. She said Liam didn’t need it anymore. And Mickey wanted to yell at her for thinking he needed her stupid fuckin’ charity but he couldn’t talk over the lump in his throat because he did need her stupid fuckin’ charity and he needed her to help him get Ian out of bed. And the baby needed somewhere to be that was safe while they were busy with Ian. But Milkoviches don’t fucking need charity and they certainly don’t need fucking help. 

He doesn’t need help this time. Lifting the baby out from under Ian’s cold, clammy hand. Just barely brushing his fingertips but it strikes lightning through his body forcing his eyes to meet Ian’s again. He’s looking at him, studying him like he’s not even sure of who Mickey is for a moment, or how he ended up here. Then he blinks and Mickey backs away with a nod. Without a fucking word. What the fuck is he supposed to say anyway?

“Alright you little nugget, let’s do this,” kneeling on the floor beside the tub. Peeling the kid’s gross clothing off, “what’s the point of a diaper if it doesn’t hold the shit in?”

He makes a noise that sounds kind of like a laugh. Mickey’s eyes burn, blinking it back. Fuck, he still hates him. 

Wiping as much shit off as he can with a washcloth. The baby squirms and lets out a cry when he wipes over a spot of rash on his asscheek, “hey you’ve got your dad’s chubby ass,” telling him. Immediately wishing he hadn’t said that word. The D word. 

How can you be someone’s dad when you can’t stand to look at him?

“Fuck,” his chest is tightening again, sliding one hand under his head and the other under his ass and lowering him into the water. His face squishes up and he starts squalling as soon as he contacts the water, “too hot?”

Taking him back out, letting some cold water run. Trying again. Same thing, “too cold? What?” 

Hot water for about ten seconds. Same thing. This time he doesn’t stop with the crying even when he’s out of the water, “fuck,” now it’s happening. It’s rising in Mickey’s body. And he knows how his dad always felt. Like he was either going to smash the face of his child or start crying himself. Frustration hazing his vision, tears clouding his eyes, breath shaking while the stupid fucker just keeps screaming. It’s getting louder and higher pitched and Mickey knows he should be taking him against his chest. He should be kissing his head and cooing at him. He should be doing something. Something more than just sitting here thinking about how much he hates him and how much he wants him to just shut the fuck up and how easy it would be to just drop him in the water and walk away. And he can’t look at his red face, it’s like his elbows are locked, extended with an offering in his hands. But no one will take the fucking offering. 

A clammy fucking hand clamps down on his shoulder that’s still bare. Using it for support as his big fucking feet step over the side of the tub. His hand is shaky, weak with days of being under-hydrated and under-fed, and when the fuck does muscle atrophy set in? He’s lowering his whole body into the tub and his hands are steady enough to lift the baby out of Mickey’s. Bringing him to his chest as he leans back against the edge of the tub. Eyes closed while he leans into the top of that bald head and the baby goes quiet. His chubby butt doesn’t look so chubby cupped in Ian’s big hand. 

Now all the tightening and clouding in Mickey’s chest is rising in the form of tears and he gets up. Quickly making his way out of the room that is suffocating the life out of him for so many fucking reasons he can’t begin to process a single one. He stands with his back leaned against the doorframe, silently letting the pain roll off his face in streaks of salty water. Listening for splashes, he should be listening for splashes of water that might indicate Ian dropping the baby. Or might indicate him stepping out of the tub to get a razor blade for slitting his wrists. 

His fingers meet his eyelids. Grinding until he can force the tears back, until he sees nothing but spots, not the image of Ian lying cold and dead in a tub full of pink water with a fucking baby on his chest. 

Fuck. Turning his head to make sure none of that has happened. Glancing quickly, lingering will be too much, just long enough to know they’re both fine. And they are. 

Wiping his cheeks until they’re dry as he hurries through changing the sheets, “fuck,” pounding on the window frame to get it unstuck, pushing it open as far as it’ll go. Face against the screen. A fucking breath of crisp wet spring air. Chilly and muddy. But it’ll be summer soon, and there’s no way someone can be depressed in the summer, right? It’ll be summer and he’ll be annoyingly happy again and he’ll be bouncing off the fucking walls, going for morning runs and staying up all hours of the night to talk about his ideas, his plans. His whatever the fuck he was always going on and on about that never made any fucking sense and the scribbles in his notebook weren’t even sentences, they were just a list of words that made no fucking sense when strung together anyway. And some fucking drawings that Mickey could never decipher, maybe hieroglyphics or cave drawings or something. What the fuck? It didn’t fucking matter, his eyes were lit with life. Every single star was shining brightly, brilliantly on that green iris and even when it made no fucking sense it sill made Mickey feel like it was possible. Like it was endless. 

His chest is starting to loosen. Enough to grab a t-shirt, knowing the hot water is probably gone anyway. He’ll have to wait for a shower. He’ll wait for a shower but he can’t wait any longer to check on them in the tub. He has to check on them. He has to go make sure they’re both still above water. He has to. Fuck, he just… fucking can’t. 

His feet are moving anyway. Even if his head doesn’t want to. Even if the sight is just too fucking much and he’s not sure he can ignore all the shit that’s rising in his body every time he looks at all the fucking pain that is coursing through Ian’s veins. All that raw thumping pain that he can practically feel in the air around him. That he can feel in his own veins every time he brushes up against his flesh, every time he runs his hand through his hair, every time he presses his lips against his forehead so lightly. 

And that stupid baby. His fat head tucked under Ian’s chin. And Ian’s hand, his big hand with long skinny fingers that Mickey loves, it’s cupping water so slowly out of the tub and letting it trickle down the baby’s back. And the baby’s fat fuckin’ cheek is smashed against Ian’s chest. Ian’s chest where Mickey sometimes buries his face in those rare moments that they’re fucking face-to-face and the intimacy to just too fucking much so he has to hide to get away from Ian’s gaze burning holes into his soul, forcing him to crack around the edges and let that fucking idiot inside his broken places that he’d never fucking admit he even has so how the fuck is he supposed to let Ian into them anyway?

Fucking lump of flesh, blood, bone, and gurgles seems pretty fucking content right there. And that gurgle sounds a lot like happiness. And Mickey hates him for that. And he hates himself for that. And he really fucking hates Ian for that. But maybe it’s just not so bad. Maybe it’s not the worst thing on the planet for Ian to be able to comfort a kid that Mickey can’t stand to look at. Maybe it’s not the most awful thing for him to be so willing to love a baby that was conceived of one of the worst experiences in Mickey’s life.   
Now he’s kneeling beside the tub. And Ian’s eyes are opening. Head turning towards Mickey. There aren’t any stars. But the green is there. It’s like the green of a maple leaf at the end of summer, before the chlorophyll falls off, maybe when it’s starting to die. But it’s there. 

No, maybe this isn’t so fucking bad.

————

The surface of sleep seems so fucking far away. He can feel the heat having crept back into the place, knowing full well it’s late into the morning, maybe even noon by now. Knowing Ian’s been gone for awhile. Hearing the voices filtering in and out. Hearing the laugh that belongs to Rosa floating through the open windows every once in awhile. Hearing the laugh that belongs to Ian blanketing his reality and allowing him to slip back into deep sleep. 

His hands were throbbing so fucking bad in the middle of the night that he ended up taking some pain killers, maybe a couple more than he should have, but fuck he slept well. And he’s still breathing, so what’s it hurt to sleep a little more? 

The door’s been opening and closing again at regular intervals, knowing if he opens his eyes it’ll just be Ian’s face peering in at him. Just making sure he’s still in here. Just making sure he doesn’t need help holding his dick when he gets up to piss or something. Fuckever. Helicopter Ian. But it’s okay. Mickey’s starting to think the way his brow looks when he’s concerned is kind of fuckin’ adorable. It doesn’t feel like pity anymore, it doesn’t feel like Ian is disgusted or horrified by the shit Mickey’s been through anymore. It’s just fucking concern, and it’s okay to be concerned about the people you love. Maybe Lou taught him that. With the way she kicks his ass so fucking hard he thinks he’ll never get off the mats again, but then her heal smashes into his leg with a hard jab and her face is wrinkled with ‘I didn’t push too far, did I?’ all over it, and he nods before he drags himself to his feet for another round. Maybe just being on the mats with her in general, mostly in vulnerable positions with a woman that could end his life in a snap, but knowing he can trust her not to hurt him or violate him, maybe it’s made him more capable of accepting the fact that he can put himself out there. He can open himself up, he can take chances, and they won’t always end in him being broken. 

So maybe it’s okay now with Ian. In ways it never was before. Maybe it’s okay to tell him the shitty stuff, the stuff that can wipe some of that innocence off his face but not to a point that it’ll be hopeless. Here, where the air is always warm and the sun is always shining and the distractions of the city, the people, the circumstances; here is where they can tear it all down and rebuild it. Yeah, sure, the idiot is right. It can’t heal under old rotten stitches. It might bleed a little still, but they’ll stitch it back up right this time. And they’ll do it together. 

Fuck, that’s queer.

And fuck, that throbbing is starting to rise again. Tugging him to wake faster than the rest of his body wants. And now the damn door is opening again, this time it’s being done with the presence and aggression of that snarky bitch that’s plopping herself down on Mickey’s empty cot with a sigh, “you ain’t fightin’ tonight.”

He grumbles a response, rolling to turn his back to her. If she’s going to chew his ass, he may as well present it to her. And of course now her toes are meeting a cheek with those annoying little pulses of pressure that actually are kind of relaxing, “you keep turning it to me, I might actually take a bite out of it one of these days pretty boy. I want to kick your ass for leaving me high and dry. But now I’m thinking about it, you ain’t as dumb as you look. Now you’re out. Two of our four made it through yesterday and cartel’s already sniffing around Hernandez. But if you’re out, I’ll sub in Carrier for you and then we’ll have three still in the mix. Give a higher chance of getting the cartel interested in taking them off our hands. And won’t that just be so fuckin’ perfect, huh?”

His only response is another grumble. And she falls silent for long enough that he finally turns his head to look at her. Chewing on her lip, skin pale under the tan, shades of sickly around her eyes. He’s willing to bet her hands are shaking and she spent half the night puking her guts out. Fuck. She shouldn’t be fighting tonight either, not if she’s going through withdrawals from heroin. 

“Maybe you should sub in Angelo for yourself. You look like shit.”

“Yeah. That ain’t happenin’. I sub in too many they know something’s up. You show up, sit in the crowd with your fucked hands, it’s pretty fuckin’ clear that sub is legit. If Carrier don’t make it through one round, no skin off my back. A few dollars out of my pocket, but fuck if I care.”

“You really shouldn’t…”

“Fuck you. I’m covered. I ain’t a stranger to this shit. Just another start of the season, time to get sort of sober. Snort a bump before I hit the cage.”

They don’t test for drugs, only blood-borne diseases and shit, but, “that ain’t your style.”

Shrug, “maybe it is this year,” her eyes are dim, not a single spinning star to be found, not even a faded moon, “you get your papers soon enough, huh? Then it’s back to Chicago, first flight out?”

“Fuck no,” he’s certain of this. He’s not going anywhere for awhile. Too many things here that he couldn’t bear to leave behind. He’s looking at one of them. He’s hearing the other laughing outside the door. And he’s terrified of what Chicago holds for him and Ian. What do they do there for work? Back to stripping and fucking everything that pays enough for Ian? Back to drug running for Mickey? And what’s to stop him from beating his old man to death in some alley some night? And what’s to keep Ian medicated if he’s around his family who apparently didn’t give enough of a shit to keep him from destroying himself on this last manic high, starting a fucking religious movement? 

Fuck that shit. 

“You think guano is, ah,” her fingers have started rising to find the joint behind her ear. He’s right, they’re shaking, “okay with that?”

“Fuck I don’t know. There ain’t a whole lot left there for him either. Family can be visited. Asshole wants to get married.”

She snorts a laugh at him, “a lifetime of washing each other’s piss dribbles off the front of the toilet. How fuckin’ adorable.” 

“Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell,” a half smile rising. 

If it’s possible her eyes are dimming even further. They close suddenly and she leans back to lie down on his cot. A shaky exhale, “my father showed up in Oceanside. The fucker did a job with the guys, then stole a bunch of money from Deran and took off. Rosa’s huddled in the corner of the old general store while I’m tyin’ a noose. And Charlie’s dying alone under a tree full of fuckin’ lost souls. Every day there’s more headin’ for the border, a border to a country where acceptance is a thing of the past. But it’s better than genocide and watchin’ your family get executed. Fucked world we live in, ain’t it? And here we are in fuckin’ Mexico ‘cause we ain’t got freedom in the States. We make a livin’ by beatin’ the shit out of someone we barely know and it feels so fuckin’ good even when you’re fightin’ with your head instead of your anger, your anger still finds a way to mute in those moments. And then we’re stashin’ cash in the packs of the tired, the poor, the fuckin’ huddled masses, the wretched refuse of our teeming shore. Shippin’ ‘em off to just be the homeless, the tempest-tossed right beside her and her lamp to the golden door. The fuckin’ golden door. Fuck. But at least when you’re hittin’ and you’re gettin’ hit it feels normal, right? It feels like it’s okay, like everything is okay, how it’s ‘sposed to be ‘cause maybe it’s all you’ve ever known and when it’s gone then you’re gone. And when I’m gone I’ll be a dead daughter buried in a desert flower patch, and old man under a tree of crows, and nothin’ I did will ever matter. And fuck,” the joint is unlit in her right hand and her left is dragging nails across the marks in her arm, “then there’s you and your guano and the way you fuckin’ look at each other like everything in the fucking world is in perfect order. And when I look at you lookin’ at each other I think maybe that’s true.”

As she’s talking he’s forcing himself to seated on the edge of Ian’s cot. Running his bandaged hands across the surface of his face. Thinking she’s fucking crazy and she’s too fucking smart for her own good, and too empathetic to the people around her and someday it’ll destroy her. If it hasn’t already. And he’s thinking as she’s shrugging, “fuck it,” and getting to her feet that he’s getting to his feet and he’s wrapping his arms around her before she can leave. She’s stiff, unyielding, nothing more than a bag of sticks in his arms at first. Like it’s been fucking years since she’s allowed someone to hug her and she hates him for doing it. But then her face is buried in the side of his neck, her arms are around him too and she’s slowly giving in. It feels like when the ice starts to melt on the roof, cracking and shifting. Today won’t be the day that it slides off into a pile on the porch, eventually melting in the heat of the sun. But it’s a start. 

She’ll fall on her face again soon enough. She’ll give into the itch and the burn, she’ll get that needle and empty it into her veins. Her fight will never be over. But she’s given Mickey so much already in the course of over two years he’s been here, she’s given him a place to belong and never expected anything from him in return. She’s given him a place to feel safe and secure in who he is. She’s never judged him or pitied him. And he wants to be here when she does fall. He wants to reach for her hand and drag her to her feet just like she did for him when she found him burning his clothes in Purgatory. Just like she’s done for him when he’s beaten and exhausted at the end of a training session. Like she’s done for him when he’s spilled his guts about his mother and his father and all the shitty things he’s seen and done and been through, when he thinks things won’t ever get better and the cycles will never be broken. 

“Fuck cycles,” he hears himself telling her, “fuck the one day at a time shit and the god shit. Fuck the psychology shit and the doctor shit. Fuck it all. You’re stronger than all of that shit. And you won’t be nothing more than a dead daughter and dead old man when your life is over. You’ll be me. And Rosa. And Ian. Rocky, Martin, Deran. All that shit. All the hands you’ve held on the trip to the border. All the women and girls you’ve kept from the cartel and their trafficking. If you can’t see your own fuckin’ worth than just ask me. I know what you are. Just ask Ian. Or Eduardo,” he adds with a laugh, “he’ll tell you for days what you are. Without even takin’ a fuckin’ breath for the hours he’s reciting shit about your eyes. And if you ever tie a fuckin’ noose again it better be for hangin’ the dirty fucks that burned a brand into Rosa’s flesh,” leaning out of the embrace to look at her eyes, “got it?”

She swats the lone tear trailing down her cheek, “I don’t know if it’s what you just said or the withdrawals, but I’m about to puke.”

“Yeah, yeah,” gripping her tightly against him again. Holding onto her until she takes a deep steady breath. Then allowing her to back away with a nod. Her head is hanging down in defeat for a moment when she pulls the door open, but by the time her bare foot is on the bottom step she’s squared herself, stiffened and strengthened her stance. Taking the day head up, braced and ready for impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With good reason, Mickey had a hard time bonding with Yev. By the time season five rolled around he seemed open and sometimes loving towards him. I think the only way he would have been able to break through that wall of resent would be with the help of Ian. 
> 
> And here's the thing about cycles - fuck cycles. Seriously fuck them. I'm the daughter of two alcoholics. So fuck cycles.


	43. Warm Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home after fight night. 
> 
> A flashback to their first time together. 
> 
> Ian's memories on coming out of a depressive state.

Warm Mouth

 

“So, um,” sighing, his hands finding Mickey’s hair tucked under his chin, sliding through gently, “who’s this Eduardo guy? What’s his fascination with you?”

He grunts something unintelligible. 

They spent the afternoon playing with Rosa, just a reminder of how good fatherhood looks on Mickey. Went to watch the fights, show face and display his fucked up hands to keep any suspicion from rising should any cartel pricks be keeping tabs. 

“Ask Lou when she comes back from his place,” he finally responds. She lost hard in the final bout. It was really fucking painful to watch. She looked like she had the upper hand for the first round but after a restart from standing she couldn’t get her opponent to the ground fast enough. Mickey’s never seen her lose once she gets her match to the ground. Ian can believe it. She’s so smooth and quick, “probably won’t hurt her to spend a few days with him.”

“She sober up there?”

“Yeah. I mean, guy’s got good painkillers but his fuckin’ massages. Now that’s some good shit. Soft hands.”

A prickle of jealousy rises up the back of Ian’s neck. Picturing the guy’s hands on Mickey’s body makes him bristle, “and a warm mouth?”

“Yeah sure,” falling silent for a moment, it’s so far gone in his mind, so far behind them that he probably doesn’t even remember it. And why would he? All of his actions towards Ian once he came back from his stupid Army stint, all of the shit Mickey went through to love and support him, that more than makes up for one stupid comment that Ian isn’t even sure he believed back then, “fuckin’ elephant’s memory or what?”

“No,” he tries backpedaling but now Mickey’s head is rising from the spot that’s gotten warm and sticky with sweat.

His ocean eyes are peering directly into Ian’s soul, “did you, ah, believe that comment when I said it?”

“No. I mean, yeah. I don’t know.”

————

He just came here to get the gun back. And then he had to go and linger in the doorway for just a moment to watch him sleep. He’d never seen Mickey in an unguarded state before. He’d seen him intimidate, beat, and scare the hell out of people. He’d seen him bully and thieve. He’d seen him piss on first base and even way back then when he got a glimpse of his dick he thought it looked like a nice dick and he’d like to see it up close. And he’d seen Mickey with bloody knuckles and a dirty face. He’d seen him with that high brow and sneer on his face. And he’d been the target of that anger before. But he’d never seen him like this.

This. This is, it’s gorgeous. And he doesn’t want to swing the tire iron, he wants to lift his shirt up with it. And he wants to pull the edge of his pants down, just to see, just to get a glimpse of the pale soft flesh. But there’s no way in hell Mickey Milkovich is gay and if he woke him up by ogling his body, then Ian would be leaving this house in a body bag. Or at least wrapped in a rug and buried down by the south shore docks. 

But then he was pinned under Mickey’s weight, his dick was so close to his face and he could see the outline of it as it stiffened and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and caress it, palm it through his grey pants. But Mickey still had that look on his face like Ian was going to leave here rolled in a rug. And maybe he’d been dreaming of Karen Jackson or some other school slut. Maybe Ian had just interrupted a good dream and…

Now his shirt is coming off and his weight is leaving Ian’s chest and holy fuck he’s the most incredible looking human being Ian has ever seen up close. He can count a smattering of bruises on his abdomen, he can count his ribs, and the ripples of his abs, and he could stand here all day and trail a finger from freckle to freckle until he’s touched every single freckle and scar and now he’s yanking Ian’s shirt off over his head.

Holy fuck. Ian’s never wanted anything like what he wants right now. Right now with Mickey Milkovich. What’s he had? A random hook up with a schoolmate who’s dick was fat and kind of ugly and too veiny and there was no way in hell it was going to ever end up in Ian’s ass. And Kash. Kash gave him things if he fucked him, and he never touched Kash’s dick because it was weird and there was nothing attractive about Kash anyway. It was a reliable place to put his dick when he was horny and he’s fifteen, of course he’s horny. He’s always fucking horny, but that didn’t mean he gave a shit about Kash. Not that it mattered anyway, Kash was married and had kids and forcing himself to look and act straight because it’s how gay men survive in this neighborhood. 

But this? Holy fucking shit, this it something he wants to bathe in kisses, he wants to draw that incredible cock into his mouth and he wants to feel it in his ass and he wants Mickey to… turn around. He’s turning around. Wait, he’s bending over and presenting his ass and he’s growling over his shoulder, “don’t make a fucking sound Gallagher.”

Couldn’t if he wanted to. Struck speechless by the sight of those cheeks. Those pale, fleshy cheeks and he reaches out to caress one, his thumb trailing Mickey’s crack and his body is vibrating already at just the sight and just this little touch and he’s crawling out of his skin and wanting to get into Mickey’s and live there for the rest of his life and, “hurry the fuck up.”

Of course he’s impatient, “lube?”

“Just fuckin’ spit fuckface.”

His thumb is making a slow circle around the rim and his teeth are floating in his mouth, his vision is getting narrowed down to nothing more than the sight of Mickey’s perfect ass and how much he just wants to feel him. And, “get the fuck on with it already,” pressing back into Ian’s hand.

There’s nowhere near enough room to get in there, not without a whole fucking vat of lube, “too tight.”

“Fuckin’ pussy,” hearing him spit into his hand before it appears, rubbing a handful of saliva over his crack and Ian almost fucking loses it against his thigh as he watches him slip a finger in, two fingers. A grunt with a third one, sliding in and out for a moment. 

Holy fuck. He should at least take his cock in his hand. He should at least rub him out while he’s doing the prep work since Ian is too fucking flabbergasted and overwhelmed and a little terrified to touch him. Thinking he’ll turn around and land a right hook if he touched him wrong or did something he didn’t want. His hand slides across Mickey’s balls and he receives a quick kick to the shin, “don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

Jerking his hand away quickly. Holy fuck, he can’t fuck this up now. But that kick knocked him off balance enough that his hand is on Mickey’s left cheek and it feels so fucking incredible under his palm. It feels exactly the way an asscheek should feel. 

His hand draws back and he grunts, “now get the fuck on me before I change my mind and beat you to a bloody pulp you fuckin’ ginger idiot.”

His heart is pounding so hard in the back of his throat he thinks he’ll suffocate as he spits into his palm, fuck, he should be wearing a rubber, “condom?”

U-UP yanking a side table drawer open and slapping a rubber into his chest.

Shit, now he’s got a palm full of spit. Oh fuck, he’s going to get kicked again. Turning his hand to slide it over Mickey’s asscrack, rubbing around his rim with it and wanting to just lean down and press his mouth into him. He can barely breathe, hands shaky as he rips the wrapper open. He can barely get the rubber on. And now Mickey is sighing haughtily, his face is turned, looking over his shoulder with annoyance all over his brow. Jesus Christ, he’s never really looked at him before. Not like this. He’s always been a little terrified to look for longer than a glance. He can’t help it when a smile rises on his face, good god he’s gorgeous. And when Ian smiles, it cracks the facade and the most incredible tiny amused smile he’s ever seen is taking Mickey’s perfect features before he can turn his head away again to hide it. 

“Jesus, fuck, it’s a condom, not a fuckin’…”

His words are muffled into the bed as Ian presses into him. FUCK fisting up and slamming down on the mattress as he grunts out a whispered, “fuck,” and arches back against Ian to take more of him. He’s so fucking warm and he’s so fucking sexy, and he’s so fucking insanely gorgeous and Ian is so stupid to have never looked before. And now as his eyes hungrily scan over his bare back he sees it so fucking clearly. Fifteen years from now, he’ll be getting his turn with the computer on a base overseas in whatever shithole our government decides to invade next to try to force our culture, he’ll be skyping with this man. This man will be waiting for him in base housing in the States. He’ll be sitting at the computer at home with a smile on his face and a child on either knee and they’ll take the sweet waning moments they have to stare at each other’s faces even if it’s on the other side of a computer screen on a different fucking continent. He’ll be coming home from another tour overseas and this will be the man he comes home to. And it’ll be so fucking worth it. 

His hands round Mickey’s hips and Mickey leans into it as Ian gently draws back for a moment. Wanting this moment to last, to spark through his every single nerve, bring every single part of him to life like he’s never felt before for as long as he possibly can. Shit, now Mickey is grinding back into him, and his right hand has found Ian’s asscheek and it’s pressing so fucking hard there’s sure to be finger-shaped bruises on it and Ian doesn’t even fucking care because his muffled grunt into the pillow as his entire body goes tight and hot around him and through him is enough to make the pool of orgasm in his belly spew out into the condom. His eyes go completely blind, ears rushing so hard he can’t hear a single fucking thing and he decided he doesn’t care if Mickey punches him in the jaw for it, he’s going to kiss him. He’s going to kiss him hard and fast, and melt into his mouth and he’s going to hold both his perfect ass cheeks and grind his pelvis against him and he’s going to…

“Alright get the fuck off me, ‘less you got another round in you tough guy,” as he’s crawling up onto the mattress with his head turned, that fucking eyebrow cocked coyly and of course he has a second round in him. He has a million fucking rounds in him for that face. For that body. For that ass. He could fucking go all fucking day, all fucking night, all fucking weekend. Holy fucking fuck he could go for the rest of his life as Mickey’s leaning down on the mattress, shoving a pillow under his pelvis to lift his ass and grabbing the headboard with both hands. Waiting. 

Of course he has another round in him. He’ll never run out of rounds. And he’ll start carrying lube packets with him all the time now. Just in case. Not that Mickey would ever do this again, but just in case. 

————

His face is lingering over Ian’s and Ian is trying his hardest not to get emotional, Mickey’s hand slides over his jaw wondering with risen brows, “you gonna make me say some corny shit now, huh? You’re more than a warm mouth, idiot. You’re a warm mouth that talks too fucking much and smiles too fucking much. And your big dopey smile makes me smile. And you’re too fuckin’ optimistic, and you always see the good in people even when they’re complete assholes like me and you never stopped seeing the good in me even when I was trying my hardest to be an asshole to you and push you away so Terry wouldn’t kill us both. And sometimes I fucking hated you for that, but I never really could hate you anyway. You’re the most childish fuckin’ laugh I’ve ever heard come out of a grown man and it’s my favorite sound in the world. You say the dumbest fucking shit sometimes but I like it. You’re smart enough to do EMT shit, so you can’t be all the fuckin’ stupid. Your jokes are corny as fuck, your damn giant hands make my dick look small and,” he stops. Chewing on his bottom lip for a moment while studying Ian’s face, “that enough? Or you want to hear about somethin’ stupid like how the air is electrified when you look at me or some shit?” he’s wearing a content, cocky smirk and he finishes off with, “your body is hot as fuck Ian. But ain’t all you are. K?”

“My hands don’t make your dick look small,” he denies.

“That all you heard outta that? ‘Course that’s all you heard outta that, now how ‘bout you grab my dick and I’ll show you how fuckin’ small it looks in your hand?”

————

The baby’s back is warm under his hand. The gentleness of his breathing and his rhythmic jerky movements on the bed are calming. When he woke earlier to the feel of his little fists crashing against his back every so often, he felt like he was struggling to the surface of the pool after spending way too long underwater. Thinking the baby was going to roll off the bed, he had turned around quickly, feeling it in every single tired and underused muscle in his body.

And then Mickey had looked at him in shock for a moment before he wiped it off his face, getting to work on bathing Yevgeny. He laid here and watched the ceiling, blinking away the fog of the last couple days. Or weeks? Maybe a lifetime. But the thoughts were becoming clear. The circling in his head of ‘you’re worthless, you’re a burden, you’re a waste’, had faded. The voice had started turning into little bits of Mickey in there. Mickey’s ‘you’re okay, I’m just going to change the sheets’, and ‘you’re alright Ian, it’s just us’, and ‘I’m right here and I love you’ so quietly against his spine. 

The baby’s cry was like a final tug to the surface. He sounded so distraught. Ian felt like he was walking through sludge up to his waist to get to him. To get to Mickey. But Mickey needed him. Yevgeny needed him. Mickey wasn’t ready to be alone with that baby. He could barely stand the sight of him. There was no way he was ready to coddle him when he was that upset. There was no way he was ready to give the baby the comfort and security that infants need. He’d poured all he was worth into Ian for the last few days or weeks or however long Ian had been lost in the gloom enveloping his mind and body. Of course he didn’t have the emotional capacity to hold that crying baby against his chest. 

“The fuck’s the point of a diaper if it doesn’t hold the shit in?” Mickey wonders as he’s walking back into the bedroom. A clean diaper in one hand, a onesie in the other. If it wasn’t such a horrible way to have a child together, it’d be the most beautiful thing Ian has ever seen.

“Probably growing out of that size,” sliding his hand over the tubby butt-cheeks, “right, big guy?” his voice sounds weird and strained, his head is still blurry but he’s trying his damndest to stay afloat, “too big for your britches.”

“Why the fuck we got the wrong size diapers then?”

“Svetlana probably wants to use them up anyway. Growing too fast for the big pack,” sliding a finger into his little fist, letting him drag it to his mouth for a good chew, “no teeth yet, huh? Working on it,” it’s turned into a whisper and his eyes are getting heavy already. Those big blue eyes watching him intently as he gnaws on his pointer finger with hearty determination before it turns into sucking, “he’s hungry.”

“How the fuck you know that?”

“Wait for it,” he pulls his finger back and Yevgeny jerks his head to the side, mouth open like a baby bird, frustration rising into his pink cheeks and a howl. Giving his finger back.

“Fuckin’ eh, of course he’s hungry he just puked and shit out his last meal. Jesus fuck kid,” he drops the diaper on the end of the bed, “let’s cover your fat ass before it explodes on my clean sheets. Then I’ll get you some titty milk.”

“Warm it up on the stovetop in a pan of water.”

“Why the fuck can’t I just put it in the microwave?” rolling the ball of squalling baby over to strap the diaper on. He’s lacking caring in his movements, not being rough or anything, just not engaging in anyway and the baby can certainly feel it. Letting out another howl, Mickey flinches, rushing through the diapering process, tossing the onesie on the bed without making eye contact with that tiny ocean of blue that’s lined with tears. 

“It’ll warm it unevenly,” he finally answers weakly before Mickey can disappear through the open door. For the brief moments that Monica actually stayed around when the kids were babies, she breastfed them her spoiled drug-laced breast. The longest she ever stayed was after Carl was born. She lasted six months that time. Probably explains Carl’s level of functioning as a human being, having spent that much time getting second-hand highs off her milk. 

A stinging rises to his eyes. Remembering the time she didn’t get out of bed for three weeks. Frank would drag her to the tub and drop her in every couple days and she’d sit in the warm water and sob. She’d sob so loudly. 

“I’m Monica,” he whispers as his chest tightens, cutting off his breath and tears spill over. He won’t allow them to make a noise. He won’t allow anyone else to feel his pain, or hear it. Leaving one hand in reach for the beautiful baby who is lying on his back, head turned towards Ian with his clear sea blue eyes watching him intently. He slides a finger over his sweet pink lips, “I’m sorry Yev. I’m sorry I’ll be a burden on you for the rest of your life. But I hope you know I love you,” the baby gurgles, his lips pursing together before suckling to the tip of Ian’s finger again, “I know it doesn’t mean much for someone like me to love you. But I do,” wiping his cheeks with his free hand when he hears Mickey’s footsteps approaching. 

Passing the bottle back and forth quickly between his hands like a hot potato, “got it,” announcing proudly, “it’s warm.”

He reaches for it before Mickey can even try to give it to the baby. He’s trying. That’s enough. If he burns the baby, he’ll probably never try again. The drip that contacts his wrist too hot, but he keeps his expression blank. Reaching over to set it on the windowsill where the window is partly open and cold spring air is swirling in. 

“What?” eyebrows arched towards the bottle.

“Nothing. It’s just too warm right now. He’s okay Mick. It just needs to cool a little bit. He can keep my finger for a minute, can’t you?” focus staying on the baby again. His legs are extended skyward, gaze on Ian as they drop forcefully down to the mattress with what sounds like a giggle, “yeah, you can wait.”

Both hands are wrapping themselves around Ian’s finger, hungrily sucking at it, but he’s content. And that’s okay. Mickey sighs, his hands grasping the onesie, staring at it for a long moment, his mind working in high gear figuring out a way to dress a floppy blob of baby without hurting it. Ian’s not going to coach him through it. He’s got this. 

His weight lands on the foot of the bed, leaning over to lift the baby’s head with one hand and slide the clothing over it with the other. It gets caught on his nose and he let’s go of Ian’s finger with a dissatisfied grunt that sounds a lot like his father’s, but Ian’s not going to point that out. He saw the way Mickey cringed when Iggy pointed out that Yev has Mickey’s eyes. Ian can’t blame him for not being able to bond with the baby yet. He’ll get there. With the right support, he’ll get there. 

He’s doing a good job of keeping his frustration at bay while trying to shove his floppy arms through the sleeves. Immediately when they’re free of Mickey’s grasp, those little fingers find Ian’s again. Pulling harder at his fingertip. Silently begging in his mind for the baby not to cry. If he cries, Mickey’s going to shut down. 

“Okay,” snapping up the crotch of the outfit, “got it.”

It’s inside out. But who the fuck cares? 

Now he’s moving to the dresser, slamming through the drawers and returning with boxers, sweats, and a t-shirt. He’s gentle about pulling the sheets down, but Ian immediately shivers with the cool breeze swirling in the window, “sorry,” he barely vocalizes, “kinda musty in here. Long winter,” lifting Ian’s legs to slide the underwear up.

“I’m not an invalid Mick,” it’s half growled and he hates himself for it immediately. The guy just took care of him for weeks and now he’s going to be a dick about it? 

“Then stop fucking acting like one,” he snaps back, but it’s not very convincing as his voice shakes and his fingers rise to his eyes immediately, “fuck,” flared nostrils and a bit lip. 

And as soon as Ian takes his finger away from the baby, he starts howling. And Mickey’s entire body tenses. He wants to rush through the clothing, but he still feels like he’s moving through Jello, body shaky with exhaustion and underuse. 

“Fuck,” his fists are clenched at his side as he scans over the scene. 

Ian feels himself shrinking in on himself, wanting to disappear, not wanting to be the focus of Mickey’s frustrations or his wrath. But the baby is reaching fever pitch. His instincts screaming at him to protect the baby. Not believing for a moment that Mickey would hurt him, but a crying baby and a feeble useless boyfriend are mixing together in this bedroom like a rotting pile of compost in the middle of Mickey’s life along with all the other compost he’s always been surrounded by. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair for Ian to put him through this shit. And as soon as he’s capable, he needs to free Mickey, leave him so he doesn’t have just one more person relying on him. 

He’s quick when he moves. Ian nearly lunges for his hands, thinking he’s going to smother the baby with a pillow. Instead he lifts him off the bed, “okay,” softly, “okay ya zavzhdy budu poruch,” he’s drawing the squalling infant towards his chest that’s still bare and it hits Ian hard that he’s probably trying to get to the shower himself and lord only knows how long it’s been since he’s taken care of his own needs, “ya zavzhdy budu poruch,” his eyes are closed and the baby is barely starting to settle, but his lips are on his head and he’s repeating the phrase again and again. Hands stiff on his back, under his butt, but he’s trying. Tension like a rubber band about to snap, but he’s trying. 

Fuck, Ian takes a deep breath and fights like hell to get his clothes on without passing out. Blinking spots away every time he moves too quickly, “Mick?” he’s got the pants on, the t-shirt seems like too heavy of a prospect, “bottle might be cool by now. Test it on your wrist first.”

He’s whispering the same thing over and over like a mantra into the kid’s head, maybe that rubber band did snap. Maybe touching the kid was his final breaking point. Maybe offering comfort when he needs it himself is his last straw. 

“Mickey,” barely a whisper.

His eyes are lit with fire, but he manages to keep his voice at a reasonable level as to not disturb the baby further, “fuck Ian,” mist clinging to that ocean, “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I’ll help you,” asserting with a voice that sounds weak and distant.

“I don’t need…” he starts but cuts himself off. He wants to deny help. Milkoviches don’t need help, Mickey doesn’t deserve help. But Yevgeny’s head jerks back, his crying has started to settle against his father’s heartbeat, peering up at him now. Mickey’s breath shakes when he looks down at him. Giving him a tiny nod while he reaches for the bottle. He won’t look at Ian as he lowers himself on the bed next to his hip. Offering the bottle for him to test.

“It’s good,” sliding himself over further to Mickey’s side of the bed, “lean back. Get comfortable. The more comfortable you are, the more he is.”

He can tell Mickey wants to roll his eyes, or curse him out. How the fuck could he be comfortable with the product of that day? The reason he’s still stuck here, stuck in this house full of horrors like ghosts clinging to the ceilings, the walls, the floors, echoing in the hallways and sitting on the edge of the bed at night. 

Fuck, it feels like it takes every single ounce of energy in Ian’s body to position a pillow under Mickey’s elbow and cradle Yevgeny while cooing at him to calm him as much as possible, “keep him a little upright, he’s used to breastfeeding so…”

“Yeah I can fuckin’ see that,” as his little bird mouth turns towards Mickey’s bare chest, snorting around for a food source, “wrong tit tough guy,” he tells the baby. 

Ian hates how terrified he looks at the prospect of doing this, of bonding with this baby in any capacity. He’s not sure if he can love this baby, he’s not sure if he can look this baby in the eye, he’s not sure if he can provide for this baby. And now he’s stuck sitting here shirtless with a hungry squalling infant and he has to do something. He can’t just turn his back, or hand him off to his useless weak boyfriend. 

“Well he’s got his positioning all figured out,” Ian tries to smile but it feels like there are weights strapped to the corners of his mouth, “just rub the nipple on his lips, don’t tilt it too far though.”

The bottle is still in Ian’s hand, it’s hovering in the space between them. Starting to shake with the weight of it, and he’s so fucking exhausted from holding his head up. His chin accidentally meets Mick’s shoulder, leaning into his side probably harder than he intends but he’s so godawful tired. He can’t tell who’s hand is shaking harder when Mickey’s finally does rise for the bottle. Fuck, maybe he should just keep holding on. Maybe if they’re shaking to different rhythms they can cancel each other out. He doesn’t really have a choice when Mickey’s fingers just sort of clamp down over his and start bringing the bottle towards Yevgeny’s open bird mouth just in time for him to tuck his face into Mickey’s flesh, trying to suckle off his skin.

“C’mon. My tits ain’t that big, you ain’t gonna find anything there,” it breaks a tiny laugh from his pretty mouth though. And the weights holding the corners of Ian’s mouth down seem to lighten at the sound of it. He steers the nipple of the bottle to the corner of the baby’s mouth, his head twists immediately towards it and he latches on hungrily. Ian sighs relief, remembering the struggles with Liam, he rejected so many different nipple styles it was awful, like he’d rather starve than get nutrients from the wrong shaped nipple.   
His head is getting so fucking heavy and the heat of Mickey’s body next to him feels so fucking good, his breathing growing more relaxed as he watches the baby in his arm. Yev’s little fist is resting against Mickey’s sternum, clenching and unclenching as his eyelids start to grow heavy. Ian nearly tells him he has his dad’s hands, but he fights it. Instead he turns his face, letting his lips rest against Mickey’s strong shoulder. Shoulders that have carried so much invisible weight. So any unspoken horrors that Ian may never understand, may never hear.

“It was more than once,” he barely whispers it, his gaze staying down. Ian can’t quite tell, but he thinks it’s beyond the baby now, past the little ball of warmth and trust, looking at his own lap maybe, or the mattress beside him, the spot where Ian has been lying unmoving for weeks, “more than once that my dad sent for Svetlana.”

He falls silent. Gaze distant, baby starting to give into sleep at his chest. It takes what feels like the last strength Ian contains in his body to lift himself to Mickey’s level on the bed. Leaning his forehead against Mickey’s temple, running a hand the length of his jaw, drawing him nearer to press his lips against his cheek, “you’re doing great Mick. Really fucking great.”

And it’s more than that. Ian is proud of him. And he should say that. And Ian is grateful for him. And he should say that. And he loves him too. And he should really say that. Instead of allowing it to remain unanswered whispers against his spine. 

But he doesn’t say that. Because he’s so fucking tired. And it’s so fucking overwhelming already. To just be sitting here. To just be walking through this with him. And the last thing Mickey needs right now is emotional overload. He’s reached his limit already, he’s fought his rising frustrations and anger to take care of the baby. And he’s doing, “really great,” his hand falling away from Mickey’s face to rest on his leg. Giving way to the rising exhaustion to rest his head on Mickey’s shoulder. He’s trapped by a sleeping baby anyway, he’s not going anywhere. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. 

————

Fuck, some things never change. Mickey’s sleeping face is the most incredible thing Ian has ever seen. That unguarded softness in his mouth, the way his nose twitches every now and again, the way his eyes move slightly beneath his lids from time to time. The way every few breaths there’s one that’s huffy, irritated even in sleep. When he’s so far gone his fists forget to clench themselves, his body forgets to keep watch on the door and he’s lying on his back. When Ian doesn’t even have to move to watch him. He can rest his head on his own pillow and watch Mickey in profile, soak it all it without him getting irritated or grunting, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Or maybe not. Rolling to his side, facing away from Ian. A smile rises on Ian’s face as he slides one arm under his head, receiving a dissatisfied grumble which only serves to deepen his smile and wrap tighter around his warm body. Pressing his nose into the back of his neck and sighing against his bare skin, rising goosebumps before he presses lips against a knob of his spine, “you. Lookin’ at you Mick,” hand being seized as it slides across his bare chest. Fingers swollen and painful, but not enough to keep him from entwining them with Ian’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was leaning towards not even acknowledging the warm mouth comment because I felt like all of Mickey's actions in later seasons more than made up for the shit he did in early seasons, and with Terry's influence over him I thought his actions were pretty damn realistic responses to growing up that way. But I suppose for the sake of Ian's self confidence, might as well.
> 
> I feel like when Mickey said 'I love you' over the phone, the only reason he cringed was because Svetlana was in the room hearing it. When he said it to Ian on the porch he sounded like he had said it a hundred times and Ian responded like he had heard it a hundred times. So I feel like it's legitimate he would have been whispering it to him while he was depressed. 
> 
> Ya zavzhdy budu poruch. – I will always be there for you. It's Ukrainian, I'm going to say it was something Mickey's mother said to him. I think it's appropriate for him to say to Yev, I don't think he'd be telling him he loved him but being there for him felt like something he could do at that point.
> 
> I might have had more to say about that chapter but it's long-winded enough.


	44. Just A Card In The Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking about a trip to Chicago and a little bit about the past.

Just A Card In The Mail

 

“Cartel bought Hernandez and Carrier. Looks like we’re stuck with Angelo for a bit longer, ya know, make it believable and all. ‘Course maybe he’ll stand a chance of winning a round or two in the coming weeks. Either we’ll make a little dough off him, or he’ll figure out how to get an in on his own. Martinez fucked off for the border already,” she sighs, leaning back in the chair, propping feet on the table. She looks pretty damn close to human, “the odds are in your favor pretty boy. ‘Less the feds are Angelo and Martinez. Then you’re fucked.”

“My money’s still on Hernandez.”

“Me too,” removing the joint from behind her ear, rolling it gently between her fingers before she lights it, “so that leaves the question,” blowing a slow exhale, passing it across the table, “whatcha gonna do as free men?”

He can see a smile rising on Ian’s face out of the corner of his eye. But they still haven’t really talked about it, “finish the season,” he shrugs, “make some bank.”

“You ain’t gonna hightail it for home?” her face has turned to ask Ian.

“Nah. I don’t think Chicago is home anymore,” his eyes seem to float over the space between them, landing on Mickey’s and staying there, “maybe visit for a week or two in the off season?”

“I don’ know man. I ain’t even got my papers yet. Not gonna make plans just to end up…”

“You’ll have them soon enough. You did your part. How’s McCarthy supposed to contact you? Meeting him again? Or how’s that part work?”

“Guess from here on out, it’ll all be handled through mail and shit. Don’t want to have face-to-face around here, don’t need government agents walking up the drive makin’ a big fuckin’ scene.”

“Right,” he nods, looking kind of defeated, like he wants Mickey to go buy some fuckin’ tickets to Chicago before he even has his legal documents.

“You wanna go Ian, then go. It ain’t like I’m goin’ anywhere, you want to spend a week or some shit in…”

“No. No I don’t,” that annoying stubborn set in his jaw as his eye contact lingers, “I don’t want to go until you come with me. And I don’t want to stay there. I don’t want to move back there. I want to see my siblings, remind myself of how unhealthy of an environment the Gallagher house is, and then come back here and keep living our lives. I like our life here. I do,” his hand suddenly appears on Mickey’s knee under the table, a reassuring squeeze, “besides, wouldn’t it be nice to see Yevgeny?”

“Fuck I don’t know. Kid’s like four, he’s,” pausing to think it over, “five. He don’t know me, I’m a fuckin’ card with a hundred bucks in it a few times a month. He don’t…”

“You know Svetlana married some rich old dude, right?”

“No. Fuckever, not surprised. Guess Amy and Gemma are getting some cash for their college funds then. Or Kev and V are adding to their arsenal of sex toys. Fuck, so I’m not even a card to him.”

“Come on, you really think Kev wouldn’t forward that shit?”

“Not if he knew there was money in it.”

His fingers are clamping down harder on Mickey’s leg, “Kev is an idiot. But he’s the most honest Southie I’ve ever known, Yev’s getting his mail. No doubt about it. And you know what? I’m going to call him tomorrow, and I’ll get Svet’s number from him. I’ll make sure you’re more than just a card in the mail to your son. Even if you don’t have your documents yet, there’s gotta be something in your file as far as the feds are concerned, I doubt it’ll hurt anything to make a few phone calls home.”

“Home?” 

“No,” suddenly the big idiot is leaning towards Mickey, taking his face in both his stupid, warm, comforting hands, “you’re home. We’re home. But it won’t hurt to make a few phone calls to your son if you want to. Want to. Mickey, if you want to.”

“Fine,” shaking his head to get it out of Ian’s grasp, but he doesn’t let go. His eyes are burning holes through Mickey’s armor, “fuck, fine,” his hands rising to cover Ian’s, “fine. Get her number. Fuck, I don’t know if I can talk to that bitch without…”

“I know. I failed him too, okay? He’s my son too. And it’s about time I reach out. You’re at least a card in the mail, I’m nothing. If you can’t stand the thought of talking to Svetlana, I’ll reach out to her. Okay?”

Why the fuck are these stupid fucking tears stinging the back of Mickey’s eyes? Again. Fuck, “okay.”

————

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she tapped but Angelo didn’t feel it soon enough. He’s apologizing on repeat and Mickey thinks she’s probably going to get up and knock his teeth out if he says it one more time, “get the fuck out of here before I snap your fucking neck!” she finally gets out between strained breaths, “Jesus, fuck, pretty boy go get your guano before I lose my fuckin’ shit here. Now, fuck.”  
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Ian’s voice all calm as fuck, only bouncing because he’s running across the yard, “what is it?”

“Her hip popped a pretty good one,” Mickey tells him, watching Lou with a furled brow as he leans over her.

“It ain’t a full dislocation,” she announces, “but you need to get that fucker back in place so I can get up and fuckin’ strangle that fuckin’…”

“I don’t think so. Relax. I can put it in place, but I need…”

“What? Just do it quick, quicker the better.”

“Let me grab…”

“Good fucking fuck, just do it. Longer it’s out, more pissed off I’m going to get. Just a fuckin’ subluxation, all you gotta do is…”  
“I know what I have to do. I just…”

“Can’t get that close to a pussy? Afraid it’s going to swallow you whole, don’t worry it ain’t gonna bite you through my pants…”  
“I’m not afraid of pussy,” he snorts at her, offering, “I had sex with a woman and I’m still alive,” he shrugs. 

Mickey chokes on his own spit. Ian Gallagher had sex with a woman? Seriously? And he just throws it out there like he ate cereal one morning instead of toast? 

“Normally this is done with a sedative.”

“Yeah well this ain’t the States, you ain’t a doctor, and I ain’t a little bitch. Fucking pop that shit back in place. I’m fine. I’ll be more fine if you just suck it up and do it.”

“Alright. Only if you promise you’re not going to snap my neck when you get back up.”

“Only neck I’m snappin’,” her voice rising to shout towards where Angelo is standing back but keeping watch, “is that idiot who can’t figure out what tapping out means!”

“Either way, after you’re done with that, you’re going to rest and ice for the rest of the day. Got it?”

“Fuck off doc.”

“Alright,” motioning Mickey over, “your hands here, when I tell you to press down do it,” as he’s taking her leg to his shoulder, gaining the proper angle, watching her face as her hands latch onto Mickey’s arm, fingers indenting his flesh when Ian leans towards her, telling her, “breathe in,” nodding towards Mickey, “press now,” back to Lou, “and breathe out.”

And a gross fucking pop happens and Mickey cringes and her fingernails are crescents in his bare arm but she’s letting off and sighing relief. Falling back into the mats, but threatening, “better fuckin’ run Angelo!”

Ian chuckles, Mickey mostly wonders if he should keep holding her down, but then Ian is leaning into her abdomen with his shoulder and lifting her off the mats.

“What the fuck are you doing?” draped over his shoulder, trying her damndest to not look needy or reliant.

“Can’t walk on that yet. You’re going to sit. And you’re going to ice.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ damsel in distress here, I can at least fuckin’ hop.”

“Too late.”

“Fuckin’ Eduardo,” she grunts, “had to go and try that fuckin’ acrobatic shit. Now all it takes a little fuckin’ slip and here I am with a fuckin’ sub-fuck-luxated hip again. Hey Mick,” she detours her narration, “I see what you see in him,” head rising with a wicked arch in her brow, one hand is keeping a steady handle on Ian’s hip, and the other one is sliding across his asscheek with a wink.

“Knock it off. I’ll drop you on your head.”

“No you won’t. You’re a trained professional. I’m your patient.”

“You could very well be the most irritating patient I’ve ever had. Except for that old lady that used to call all the time, saying she was having a heart attack. Then she’d grab my hand and hold it against her old saggy boob,” he shudders, “women,” depositing her in one of the patio chairs. 

“Why’d you fuck a woman if you don’t like ‘em?”

“It’s not that I don’t like women. I’ve never been attracted to one, but I don’t think they’re inferior or anything like that.”

“Identity crisis or what?” now Mickey can’t help but wonder. Ian was certain he was gay as soon as he hit puberty, maybe even before that, always giving Mickey that judging glare whenever he talked about fucking girls. 

He shrugs his big shoulders, all the way up to his fucking ears. A dead giveaway that he’s insecure about this topic. But fuck it, if he’s going to make Mickey talk about all the shit they should talk about, then maybe he should be talking about this too, “I don’t know. I had a boyfriend who made it sound like it was normal to be gay and still fuck women. And then, I don’t know, I mean I guess if you’ve never tried it then…”

“Fuck you, you’ve always been so sure about your sexuality. Some fuckin’ guy you fuck also fucks chicks then he’s bi or whatever, and a cheater. And you think, hey maybe I should fuck chicks too?”

“I don’t know, I just,” insecurity is rising all over his face and Mickey is hating himself for pushing it now, “I don’t know Mick. You fucked girls trying to prove you weren’t gay, right?”

“Were you trying to prove you weren’t gay?”

“No. I just, it was just, and Lip was…”

“Fuck Lip. Fuck your boyfriend. A woman? Did you like it?”

“No. It was awful. Maybe I was kind of a dick about it too. I don’t know. I think, I don’t know Mick,” frustration is rising, his hands combing through his hair, “I couldn’t have you. I couldn’t find you. You weren’t in any other men. You never were. And once you were locked up and you were gone for a fucking decade. Fuck, I don’t know. And maybe I was feeling weird and desperate to not be alone so I was ignoring all the stupid disrespectful shit that came with every single relationship I tried to have outside of you, and maybe I needed to prove something to myself or… you abandoned me! You weren’t there!” his voice rises, seemingly startling himself as he takes a step back. Pink rising in his cheeks, eye contact faltering, a deep breath, “I’m going to get some ice,” mumbling as he turns towards the house. 

“What the fuck?” more to himself than to Ian. Or Lou, who has fallen completely silent, which is strange as fuck and when his eyes land on her he expects some snarky remark but doesn’t get one. He’s met with a head tilt, and a risen brow, a silent, ‘go after him dickhead’. 

“Hold on,” calling after him, taking a few jogging steps to catch him barely past the doorway, “hold on,” grabbing hold of his elbow.   
When he turns to face him there are tears brimming his eyes, and it hurts like fuck in Mick’s chest, “hey,” trying in a comforting tone as his hand slips over Ian’s face, tilting his chin to urge eye contact, “I’m not judging you, not trying to make you feel insecure or whatever. That just seems out of character, I was just curious. I’m sorry for pushing.”

That was strangely easy to say. Maybe all this bullshit about talking openly with each other like doc said to, is actually helpful.   
He nods, his big dopey face still looks way too fucking sad and the insecurity is still sitting squarely on his shoulders, “look, I didn’t think about a single consequence, obviously, when I went after Sammi. It is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some pretty fucking dumb shit. If I knew, for one damn second that I would end up in fuckin’ prison over it I wouldn’t have done it. And not just because of me, if I’d known you’d be left feelin’ all alone and shit, then I don’t know man. I just…”

“I broke up with you Mick.”

“Yeah but you would’ve realized that was a stupid fucking thing to do soon enough, huh? If that dumb bitch hadn’t reappeared at that very moment, you really think that break-up would have stuck?”

Clarity starting to spread over those incredible irises and a stupid smile starting to rise, “I guess not.”

“Yeah exactly,” tapping his cheek, feeling his own smile starting to rise, “that dumb bitch just appeared at like the worst time possible. Still wish I would have dismembered her and dropped her body parts in a vat of acid.”

Ian shrugs, the smile turning into a grin, that stupid fucking childish grin that he’s always worn that Mickey’s never been able to look away from, “c’mere,” jerking his head in a nod. All it takes. All it ever takes before his lips are crashing into Mickey’s and his mouth is enveloping Mickey’s entire fuckin’ face. Hand on the back of his head like there’s no way possible to get close enough. Whatever, fuckhead wants to ingest Mickey’s entire being, he can. Mickey won’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter I'm not super satisfied with. As far as the storyline with Ian sleeping with a woman, I don't think I'll ever be satisfied for a reason for it. I felt like whoever wrote that one had never watched a single episode of it before - it was just that stupid of a storyline for his character. 
> 
> I'm trying to mix enough present with past to make it seem like I'm not just beating a dead horse, at this point with canon it was kind of hard to even want them to be together sometimes as much as they trashed Mickey and downplayed their relationship in later seasons to mean nothing to Ian. I think I have one or two more fill-ins that are kind of heavy and then we'll be getting into some lighter territory. Hopefully I still have some readers here, I think the end will be worth getting through some of these moments we've hung on the line and beat the dust out of with a broom. The last chapter is something that I think will satisfy all readers/watchers of the show.


	45. My Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little sex, a little chat, and a little plan.

My Home

 

“Fuck, Mick,” moaning half into the pillow, “you’ve got to move to make me feel it.”

“Yeah well I don’ wanna make you freak out again tough guy,” one hand on his hip, trying to keep Ian from moving too much, the other keeps flattening out against his shoulder blade. Fuck, of course he’d be covering that awful tattoo.

“I’m not. I won’t,” turning his head to look over his shoulder at Mickey. Those eyes, they’re so soft, so filled with love and lust, passion, everything they’ve always been filled with when he looks at Ian, “I’m good Mick. I promise.”

“Alright,” backing out gently, both hands now on Ian’s hip to roll him to his back. He’s never positioned this way on bottom. The times with Trevor were never very intimate, kind of, well, nothing like this as Mickey leans over him, slowly, tenderly guiding himself back into Ian.

His eyes force themselves shut and a gasp escapes, hand rising to meet the back of Mickey’s head, pulling him down as Ian rises to press their lips together. Damn, it feels like Mickey has about a hundred hands for as much of Ian’s flesh as they’re trailing over. Fingertips rising embers in Ian’s eyelids, stirring coals in his belly, fire in his chest. 

“Mickey,” gasping as his eyes open, peering into that ocean that he’ll spend eternity floating on the surface of.

“I got you Ian,” whispering against his mouth, “you’re fine,” he’s stopped moving but Ian doesn’t want that.

“I know. I know you do. You always have. Mickey, I need to ask you the right way. I need to,” he can’t catch his breath and he can’t stop the tears from rising, “I need to ask you the right way,” as Mickey’s fingers meet his cheeks, wiping gently, “I love you Mick. I love you so much and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re the match Mick, you lit my whole fucking universe on fire. You’re the only ocean I’ve ever needed to swim in. You clear the fog in my head, just the sound of your voice is enough to bring me back to the ground when I can’t do it myself. You’re the only place I’ve ever felt whole, sane, and completely alive. When you’re not around I feel like part of me is missing. You’re my home Mick, the only one I’ll ever need for the rest of my life. If you’ll have me. Mickey, will you marry me?”

The eyebrows that Ian loves have been rising with each sentence that exits his mouth, his eyes have remained on Ian’s and his perfect lips are turning up into that smile that Ian can’t live without, tapping his cheek, “thought you said you weren’t freaking out this time Gallagher,” sighing a laugh, “damn, firecrotch, I already said I would. Think I’d change my mind or what? You’re it for me Ian. Always fuckin’ have been. Of course I wanna fuckin’ marry you, have for, I don’t know, like ever,” those brows are nearly at his hairline and his fingers are sliding across Ian’s cheeks again, “yes I’ll fuckin’ marry you. You happy now? Or you want me to…”

“Kiss me. I want you to kiss me. And then I want you to fuck me into oblivion.”

“Deal,” beautiful smirk rising before he leans in. Lips pressing gently, softly at first. Like he’s savoring every single instance of skin on skin. His pelvis starts moving again in the most incredible way Ian has ever felt. Lips parting, seemingly melting against Ian’s as his hands start traveling the surface of his flesh. Sparks of flame and flashes of light blinking and swirling inside Ian’s eyelids, across his skin, inside his every nerve and every tissue. 

He starts rising and falling with Mickey’s rhythm, grinding into him, tilting back to gain every single possible instance of connection. Balling up in his stomach, spreading through his chest, a warmth like he’s never felt anywhere else in this life. A belonging unlike anything he’s ever known elsewhere. 

‘I didn’t know where else to go’. Because there was no other place to go. There was no other place in this life that could contain, but allow, love and acceptance on the level Mickey could. And did. And always will. 

————

Listening to the thudding of Mickey’s heart against his ear. His head rising and falling with every expansion and contraction of Mickey’s lungs inside his ribs. Every exhale like a warm breeze through the hair on the top of Ian’s head. Fingers combing through his crown in a lazy, easy, relaxed manner. 

“I love the quiet here,” he whispers, fingers tracing the intricate ink of the crow, “I thought I’d hate it at first, you know, being around noise all the time at home. And even when the inside of the house was miraculously quiet, it was always noisy outside. I thought the silence would drive me crazy the first few nights here. But I like it. I can think more clearly even with the fan always running. I can lay here and listen to you breathe. I can hear your heart beating. I was worried the silence around me would make the echoes in my head just that much louder, but it seems to have the opposite effect. They whisper here instead of shout,” his voice trails off. 

Mickey doesn’t respond, his hands keep moving, slipping some hair between his fingers. Left hand tracing up Ian’s side, down his arm, into his hand against Mickey’s chest. 

“That sounded crazy. I don’t hear voices anymore. Not like, I mean, when I was breaking from reality, um,” he laughs an awkward little sigh, “but it was kind of like someone else was speaking over my internal voice. And I guess I heard things that weren’t there. Like when I thought the Army was after me, you know? But, hey, you know we’ve never talked about warning signs or any of that stuff,” lifting his head suddenly to look at Mickey. 

There’s a half smile risen on his face, his eyes are twinkling and Ian wants to lean into those lips and never leave. Hand sliding from the back of his head, down the side of his face, tapping his cheek, “I got you Ian. I read all the shit from the clinic way back when I sat there with you, and you know what? I wasn’t thinking ‘oh fuck me for loving a fuckin’ wack job’, I was thinking, ‘we got this together’. Maybe I was being too optimistic or some shit thinkin’ we could do it when our lives were so fucked everywhere else. I know the warning signs, the whole withdrawing from friends and family, the overly emotional or no feelings at all, trouble concentrating and thinking clearly, lack of hygiene and self-care. And I know you Ian. I know if you’re lookin’ all aggressive for no reason, you’re pushin’ me to tell the whole fuckin’ world I’m gay, you’re sleeping too much, you’re yelling at me for asking if you’re feeling okay, and I swear to fuckin’ Gay Jesus if you ever get a fuckin’ notebook out again and start scribbling weird shit that don’t make sense,” his pointer finger rising menacingly between their faces.

Ian grabs it, sucking it into his mouth with a suggestive arch to his eyebrows. Releasing it with a smile, “I know. We just never talked about it, and…”

“I also know that even though you’re balanced now and you’re on meds that are working, and your exercise and sunshine protocol is keeping you stable; don’t mean you’ll never have another imbalance again. And that’s okay. As long as you’re trying, and as long as I’m trying. As long as we’re in this together. Then we’ll make it out together too. I know it ain’t my fault, and it ain’t your fault when shit happens. K?” 

Those fucking eyebrows, punctuation to his every sentence, “I don’t want you to have to take care of me for the rest of our lives.”  
“I’m not. You’re taking care of yourself. And I’m here if you need a little support or a lot of support or whatever the fuck. We’re taking care of each other Ian. Just like we always have.”

‘It means we take care of each other’, good god that face. And how Ian had just torn him apart. But that face now, the one that wears an easy smile, the one that still watches Ian like he’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen, “how’d I get so lucky with you?”

“That ain’t luck shithead, that was my sister lyin’ about you harassing her.”

“Mandy,” he sighs.

“Fuckin’ Mandy,” a shadow of regret on the surface of that ocean. 

“We were kids Mick.”

“I know,” unconvinced, but an attempted smile. 

“It won’t be hard to find her now, I bet she’s on social media.”

“Yeah if she’s still alive.”

“She’s smart and resourceful, and she’s got something few people have.”

“What’s that?”

“Milkovich temperament,” responding with a smirk.

————

Glaring into the mid-day bright summer sunshine, leaning against the doorframe, watching the scene in front of him with an easy smile on his face. Mickey sitting at the outdoor table with Rosa in his lap. They’re reading a book and Mickey’s animated face is telling Ian the story without having to hear the words. Rosa’s head is getting heavy with sleep against his chest, against the warmth and comfort of his body, the lulling of his voice against the back of her head. 

He flicks a tear of relief off his cheek. He’s been getting the cards. And soon Mickey will be receiving a box from his son, full of drawings that he’s been making of how he imagines Mickey’s life on the beach. Drawings that Svetlana has been setting aside, knowing one day she’d be back in touch in some way shape or form, thinking it would be with plexiglass between them of course. But knowing full well that Mickey would never not be a presence of some sort in his son’s life. Svetlana didn’t want him speaking to Ian over the phone, and he didn’t blame her one bit, but he heard his voice in the background and his heart lodged fully in his throat. Mickey will get a box in the mail from his son, and when he’s ready he can call him. And Ian knows when he hears his voice, he’ll need Ian standing right there for support. He’ll be there. He’ll always be there, right there next to him.

————

“I’m thinking,” sighing, peering over his shoulder to look at the tattoo in the bathroom mirror.

“Spit it out mumbles,” not watching Ian, busy towel drying in the center of their bedroom.

“Patience. Not a trait you have yet mastered.”

The middle finger and the raised eyebrow appear in the reflection.

“I’m thinking that I’ll get this tattoo covered up.”

Silence. The sound of his feet moving gently across the room, stopping in the doorway, “it’s for your mom man, it’s not…”

“It is that bad,” he laughs, “don’t pretend. It’s horrible. But here’s what I’m thinking,” turning now to step towards him, “I don’t need a reminder of her on the my skin. She’s in a handful of memories and sometimes she’s that obnoxiously happy voice in my head, and sometimes coming out of my own mouth, singing in the kitchen while she makes breakfast. But she was never permanent in my life, so why should I remember her with permanent ink? Ink that’s really fucking ugly that my fiancee can’t stand looking at when he fucks me, so…”

“Hey, ain’t my body. Ain’t my ink. If you…”

“Listen.”

“Two interruptions in a row firecrotch, you’re standing on thin ice.”

“Yeah I can tell,” fingers meeting his brows to force them down with a laugh before they’re swatted away haughtily, a death glare landing on Ian’s face. All it accomplishes is making Ian laugh, grabbing his hips to yank him close, “I was thinking I’d cover it with a crow, but don’t interrupt,” covering his mouth with his hand. Fuck, this death glare is effective, “it won’t be a matching tattoo. Matching tattoos are queer,” doing his best imitation of his lover’s expression. Probably failing miserably, “the crows led you here. They led me here. Makes sense, right? I’ll just find a different design,” shrugging, letting go of Mickey’s mouth with his hand.

“You’re going to pay for that, ya know?”

“Yeah I know. Totally worth it,” grinning now.

“You’re a dick,” his face is proving he’s more amused than annoyed.

“And you love all nine inches.”

“Don’t be gettin’ all cocky, it’s only like eight and a half.”

“You love all eight and half, plus the other half inch,” pulling his pelvis tight against him to grind together through his boxer-briefs and Ian’s jeans.

His eyes roll, lips pursing with annoyance, stiffening dick calling his bluff when Ian’s hand slides over it, “whatever you wanna do tough guy, like I said ain’t my body. Ain’t my ink.”

“No. But you’re the one looking at it more often than I am. So how ‘bout I suck your dick while you decide?” dropping to his knees, taking that gorgeous dick in his hands. He’s wrong about it looking small in Ian’s hands. It looks perfect. 

“Well, now you’re…” cut off in his throat. A third interruption. But Ian’s pretty sure he’s not going to get annoyed by this one. 

Doesn’t take long. Never does, “you’re wrong though,” admitting as he kisses his way up his body, “this is your body Mick. You’re the only person who has ever had this effect on this body,” walking into him to back him out to the bedroom. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he leans him down, keeping his body in a safe embrace while he lowers over top of him. Seizing his lips. For two people who were always in such a rush to get to endgame, rarely facing each other and even less often making eye contact; this having become the norm and Ian fucking loves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a better proposal. 
> 
> One of the reasons I wanted to introduce Rosa as a potential daughter for them was because I think if fatherhood had been a choice for Mickey at a point when he had his life together, he'd have knocked it out of the park. We know once he loves, he loves hard and I think the same would go for his children. 
> 
> The tattoo - first of all, does anyone get ink without looking at the template on your skin first? Second, normally something like that seems like a relentless source of jokes for Mickey - but I think since he knows what it's like to lose his mom, he'd actually be pretty understanding of it even if he hated it. 
> 
> Mickey's crow I picture as in flight, head on, looking as though it's scanning the ground for prey. Ian's I would do as a profile, standing proud and strong, looking as though he's protecting his nest. I feel a tiny urge to draw them. But then I'd probably never figure out how to post them anyway, so you'll just have to imagine them yourself!


	46. A Box Postmarked From Chicago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's got mail.
> 
> The flashback in this chapter is a little uncomfortable and might burst the domestic Gallavich happy bubble. But I can't convince myself that hypersexuality would truly be fun.

A Box Postmarked From Chicago

 

This is the thing. This is the thing, right here. Right here at his fingertips. Right under his sweaty shaking hand. This is the thing. A box. Postmarked from Chicago. Svetlana’s swirling letters on the label. And this is the thing. He’s his father. He is his father. Putting his own needs and wants ahead of his son’s. Doing one stupid thing after another. Finally the full consequence of his actions coming down on his head like a fucking hammer. And he is his father. He is Terry. Never giving a fuckin’ shit about how his actions affected his children. Never caring what would happen to them when he was locked up. Never allowing them to rely on him. Never allowing them to be a part of his life. Always the fucking shadow chasing them down the hall. Always that harsh, cruel whisper in their ears. That fist shattering their jaws, bruising their kidneys. That drunken slur and stumbling feet on linoleum.

And what makes Mickey any better than that? 

He bites down hard on his lower lip but it doesn’t stop the trembling. He left Chicago without giving half a shit about that little boy. The little boy he was finally able to look at. He was finally able to look into the reflection of his own eyes, able to look into them and not see his own mother sitting on the edge of his bed, her head being smashed into the stove. He was finally able to look at him and not hear his father’s voice, ‘she’s gonna fuck the faggot outta you kid’, he was finally able to look at him and not hear Svetlana, ‘no rubber, what do you expect?’ like it was his choice. He was finally able to look at the fucking kid and see a future, a future with that kid in Ian’s arms. With that kid being reflected in Ian’s smile. 

And then he ditched him. He ditched him. No differently than Terry had all those times. Leaving them alone, fending for themselves while he sat behind bars. And how is Mickey any different? Behind bars, or in another fuckin’ country on the run, in hiding. Fuck.   
And now what? He’s just supposed to jump into the kid’s life? He’s just supposed to fuckin’ call him and say what? What the fuck is he supposed to say?

Ian’s hands clench down on his shoulders, standing behind him with his chin digging into Mickey’s shoulder and he wants to shrug him off. Tell him he’s suffocating him, he’s adding too much pressure to a set of shoulders that is already bearing too much fucking weight and every time he thinks he’s alleviated some of it, more just comes crashing right back down on him. 

And then what? Then he meets his kid when they go back to that godforsaken city and they what? Shake hands? He’s been living with his mom and some old fuckin’ rich guy, probably being raised by a fuckin’ nanny and going to private school. And what the fuck could Mickey possibly offer him that he doesn’t already have? And what the fuck could he teach him that he wouldn’t learn from his fuckin’ private school teacher and his fuckin’ tutor? How to make a shiv, how to steal without getting caught, how to live off scraps of things that could never make whole things but it’s the scraps or it’s nothing so scraps of shit being forced into things that resemble survival are the only fucking option. Yeah, that’ll get the kid places. 

“It’s alright,” Ian’s voice soft in his ear, his hands dropping from his shoulders to wrap around his chest, “open it when you’re ready.”  
“No fucking shit fuckface,” there’s bite in it and he feels Ian flinch against his back. And he instantly feels like a dick, but he’s not going to apologize because this fuckface knew this was coming and he didn’t warn him. So fuck him, “sorry,” okay, fine he’ll apologize because the fuckface is just trying to do what’s best for him. And he’s standing here holding him because he thinks he’ll fall apart if he lets go. And maybe he fucking will. And maybe he fucking will even if Ian is holding on. Because it’s not like he ever deserved Ian’s optimism and need to see the fucking good things that don’t actually exist inside Mickey, but he keeps insisting they do. And it’s not like he deserves the love of this kid that he doesn’t even fucking know, and couldn’t even fucking look at for how long? And the fucking kid is sending him a box full of shit anyway. And the damn box is getting blurry in Mickey’s vision and his fuckin’ cheeks are getting wet. And this fucking overwhelming presence behind him is about to make him fuckin’ crack.

But then the fuckface whispers, “you’re alright Mick. You’e doing great.”

“I’m standing here crying over a fucking unopened box asshole. How the fuck’s that great?”

“It’s appropriate to cry sometimes, you know?”

“Fuck you.”

“I know,” damn warm lips on the side of his neck, his breath against his ear.

“Fuck,” he squirms out of his arms anyway. It’s just too fucking much. And he can’t look at Ian, ‘cause he knows he has that fuckin’ rejected puppy look on his face. And sometimes it’s okay to reject him. So fuck.

————

He can feel Ian still sitting awake next to him. Smoking a cigarette and writing in his stupid notebook. He’s on club-time even when he’s got a night off, so of course he’s still awake at four in the morning. Mickey just wishes he would fuckin’ be quiet about it. Random whispers to himself about whatever the fuck he’s writing. And that fuckin’ muffled chuckle like he’s clasping his hand over his mouth. What the fuck?

But now he’s gone quiet. Completely quiet for like ten fuckin’ minutes. Long enough that Mickey has finally drifted off, with the thoughts of what Fiona and Lip were telling him swirling around in his mind, and maybe he should talk to her. He could do that, he could talk to her about it sometime when that fuckin’ arrogant prick isn’t around. ‘Cause the truth is, Mickey is fucking tired. He’s fucking exhausted. His entire fucking body is weighed down with tired heavy muscles from chasing Ian around, and bending over every thirty fuckin’ seconds it seems to let him pound out whatever energy is making that fucking buzzing noise in the air around him and then it only quiets the buzz for like an hour max before he’s back for more. And Mickey just can’t fucking give anymore. He’s fucking tired. And achy. And sore. But what if he doesn’t give anymore? What then? He’ll leave. He’ll pack up his shit and leave for the Army, acting like it was all Mickey’s fault to begin with. And maybe it was. Maybe it was all Mickey’s fault anyway. Maybe he should have let his dad shoot him in the fuckin’ face instead of fucking Svetlana that very first time. Ended it all before it even began, yeah sure, whatever, it would have ended Ian’s life too, and whatever, probably Svetlana’s too. But they’re all fucked now anyway, so maybe it would have just saved them some fuckin’ years on a planet full of fucked forever. 

Or maybe he’ll look for someone else who’s willing to give. And give. And keep fucking giving until his ass his sore and his legs are trembling and his breath is burning the back of his throat, but he’s gotten so bad at saying no to that fucking face. And he hates the fucking face, like a puppy dog who’s face he just rubbed in shit when he shit on the floor and he didn’t mean to shit on the floor but he just couldn’t make it out the door or he just didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to shit on the floor. Fuck.

Yes, he’ll talk to Fiona. What the fuck’s he going to say? No, I can’t keep up with your brother’s sexual appetite anymore, my fucking ass hurts and my back is breaking and he keeps waking me up in the middle of the fucking night with his dick rubbing against my asscheeks and his hands sliding under my boxers, and fuck even putting them on anymore because they won’t last long. And he’s whispering weird shit all the time, and he’s not fucking sleeping and even being on fucking club-time doesn’t make sense anymore because he gets home at three, then does whatever work-out program he’s currently obsessed with, then gets in bed sometime between four and five, then stares at me for like at least a half hour, then wakes me up with his dick rubbing against me and his hands sliding over me, and he’s telling me shit like, ‘you don’t even have to move Mick, I’ll do all the work, you barely even have to wake up, I’ll be quick, I’ll be gentle, I just want you so bad Mick, so bad, all the time’. And it’s a big fucking lie. He’s not gentle and he’s not quick and when Mickey lets him, he doesn’t fucking stop even after he comes, he just keeps pounding away like he didn’t even feel himself orgasm, like he can’t even feel it dripping out around his cock and he can’t feel the oversensitivity as he just keeps pumping away. So what the fuck is he supposed to say?!

And it’s fucking happening right now, isn’t it? It’s fucking happening just as Mickey was fully giving into sleep, just as his head was finally sinking in just right into the pillow. Just as Ian had finally gone quiet and finally turned off the fucking light, and his stupid fucking notebook is finally closed and put away. And Mickey needs to look in that fucking thing again one of these days and see if any of it makes any fucking sense yet, and Iggy was watching some stupid real-life-crime thingy on tv the other day and the fucking psychopath killer freak weirdo had a whole bunch of shit scribbled on his wall that didn’t make any fucking sense and if anyone had bothered checking in on him before he went nuts and killed his parents, then they’d have seen that shit and they’d have seen he was mentally declining and maybe they could have stopped it or something, or something, but what the fuck? His fucking hands are pulling the sheets down off Mickey’s shoulder and his lips are against the back of his neck, and he’s sliding his body closer and no, Mickey didn’t put the fucking boxers back on after the last two fucking rounds and he didn’t even bother cleaning up and he’s sticky with Ian’s cum on his ass and his own cum ended up in the fucking boxers because he knew he was going to be too fucking lazy and tired to get up and clean off since they already fucked three times this afternoon and he thought that might be enough but then after dinner Ian was raking over him with his eyes and he could fucking see it was coming. And he didn’t even fucking want to, but how the fuck could he say no to that face? He tried that once last week and Ian left the house pouting and then Kev called him hours later to tell him Ian was getting a little out of control at the Alibi and he should probably come down for him. 

So what? He tells him, ‘no I’m just too fucking tired and sore from five fucking rounds already today’, and Ian just leaves again and finds some horny old fuck at a club in Boystown, or it’s too fucking early in the morning for that shit so he’ll go to what like a fuckin’ breakfast diner and find some eager busboy or some shit? Or course he could if he wanted to, he could get laid anywhere any time he wanted to. So what the fuck would keep him around here if Mickey decided it was just too fucking much? Really, what would keep him here? Mickey’s sparkling personality? His openness? Or his incredible living situation with a wife and an infant, a bunch of Milkovich assholes who Mickey isn’t even certain they’ve accepted his live-in boyfriend anyway, but they just keep coming over to get in on the next scam because they need money too and when they come over here they get to stare at Svetlana’s milk-makers that are so fucking huge right now even sometimes Mickey can’t look away from them and he doesn’t even like tits. So what the fuck would keep him here? 

Nothing. So when he whispers, “you awake?” against his ear and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his asshole ache in anticipation of what’s about to come, and not the good kind of ache, he ignores him. Fuck, maybe if he just ignores him he’ll give in and go to sleep. If he says no, get the fuck off me, he’ll leave. Why wouldn’t he?

He’s not going to give up. Mickey should know that already. His hands are sliding over his asscheeks and Mickey wants to fucking scream. And his mouth is still against his ear, whispering, “you don’t even have to move. I promise. I’ll be so gentle. You’re just so fucking sexy Mick. You’re so sexy laying there naked already, like you’re just waiting for more. Please tell me you want more. I want more. I want every single…”

“Shut the fuck up Ian,” he snarls at him, his elbow slams back into Ian’s ribs without him telling it to, and Ian grunts as he’s jarred back over to his side of the bed. But it’s too fucking late, Mickey’s temper is flared and he can’t fucking take this shit anymore, “go the fuck to sleep Ian,” sitting up, getting to his feet, “sleep. Like fucking normal people do at five in the fucking morning. Fucking sleep, like I was trying to fucking do,” stalking over to the dresser for the underwear drawer and making the mistake of looking at Ian. 

He’s backed up against the headboard, looking like Mickey just fucking belted him for no fucking reason. His fucking eyes are big and rimmed in tears before they drop to his hands in his lap, and his shoulders are hunched and he mumbles something that Mickey doesn’t fucking hear over the rushing in his ears and roll of anger up his spine. Fuck, he just wants to go over there and smack the fuck out of him, give him a reason to be all mopey and fucking hurt. His hand flies up to his forehead, smoothing over it like it’s going to somehow calm the broiling turmoil in his body, like it’s going to somehow keep it inside when it’s a fucking dam about to burst and flood over every single person in this house but first of all the fucking ginger fuck that might be fucking crying right now and all Mickey wants to do is punch him. 

Jerking his boxers up his legs instead. Rummaging around for a pair of jeans. He’s going to have a smoke outside. A breath of summer air, maybe go for a walk around the block and who knows, beat the hell out of some drunk passed out in the alley instead. Because someone out there somewhere deserves an ass-beating and Mickey deserves to give one. Maybe he’ll walk up on some fuckin’ purse-snatcher, or kid-grabber, or some fuckin’ shit that’ll get him a reward for using the anger that just needs a fucking place to land that isn’t Ian’s face. 

His t-shirt is half over his head when he hears a whisper, “are you leaving me?”

“What?”

“Did I do something wrong?” now his big green eyes rise and he looks so fucking broken-hearted, “are you leaving me?”

“No. What? Why the fuck would I leave you? I just need some fucking air.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck,” whispered into the space between them, the space where Mickey can’t understand Ian and Ian can’t understand Mickey. His first attempt at a deep breath gets stuck in his chest and it burns and aches. Exiting his nose in three huffs as he tries his damndest to keep his nostrils under control. Fingers grinding into his closed lids until he sees spots, a second attempt at a deep breath works. Sort of. Enough that he walks over, and sits beside Ian, “no, you didn’t do anything wrong Ian. I just, fuck, I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

“And I woke you up,” he’s looking down at his hands again, “you just, I mean, you can’t just sleep naked and expect me not to get turned on every time I look at you.”

“Oh so it’s my fault you’re a horny fuck?” he teases, but his heart is only half in it. They should talk about this shit. Maybe now is the time. Maybe now is the only time, but maybe he should talk to Fiona first and see how he’s supposed to talk about this shit. If he brings it up now, if he makes Ian feel bad about it, then he’ll take off. Okay, he’ll talk to Fiona today. And right now, he’ll just reach out, touch his cheek.

His eyes rise, every single fucking star is blindingly bright, enough that they’re painful to stare at, “yeah,” and his smile is back. That quickly. And his fucking hands that can’t seem to keep still lately are at it again, finding Mickey’s waist and giving it a squeeze, giving it a tug, pulling him closer. And that fucking current of energy thrumming though Ian’s body is meeting Mickey’s and rolling over him, zapping him painfully, and fully aware of how unsettled everything inside of Ian’s mind and body must be right now. And it fucking hurts. 

And he doesn’t want to be pounded by that energy. He can’t take it right now. He doesn’t want to, he just got to a point where he thought maybe sometimes it was okay to enjoy sex, it was okay to give in to what his fucking queer dick wanted and admit that he enjoyed it. Behind the closed bedroom door, behind the door where Terry is not on the other side, where his whore of a wife is not standing with a hammer in her hand, where his sister is not calling him a pussy for not chasing after Ian when he was fucking stuck to his wife and his son and what the fuck difference would it have made? All of it was his fucking fault anyway, all of it since he was seven fucking years old and he wanted to marry Matthew Bowden. 

Now his fucking clothes are already off and when Ian’s hand traces his right cheek right over those pellet scars, when his fingers start circling around his asshole, he fucking flinches. And he fuckin’ blurts, “not happenin’ firecrotch,” so he starts to head south with his mouth, to where Ian’s dick is already hard and ready. That fucking thing looks worn out too, just how Mickey feels, if a fuckin’ hard cock could look sad and tired, this one does. But it’s still fucking rock hard. And even with it in his mouth and Ian’s hands on Mickey’s shoulders, his own dick has zero reaction. His own dick that always stands attentive when Ian’s does, it’s dangling between his legs like a limp noodle and he doesn’t even fucking care right now because he just wants to suck Ian off and lay back down, maybe get an hour or two of uninterrupted sleep before all the fuckin’ freeloaders and whores that are always fuckin’ under foot in this fucking house start filtering in and making so much fuckin’ noise it’d be impossible for a damn deaf person to sleep. Fuck.

His fucking hands are getting dangerously close to Mickey’s head and he’s started thrusting into Mickey’s mouth and he knows Mickey fucking hates that. He’s the one doing the sucking and tongue-flicking and mouth-fucking, he’s not getting mouth-fucked. That’s not his thing. And Ian knows that. So why the fuck are his fingertips digging into the back of Mickey’s head? And why the fuck is…

He tries to swallow without gagging on the hot, slimy, gooey cum that just hit the back of his throat and he fucking hates that, and Ian knows that, and he’s supposed to warn him so he can pull off and blow it in a t-shirt, or some dirty underwear, or even on Mickey’s chest. But not in his fucking mouth, not unless he gives him permission first, Ian fucking knows that. 

“It snuck up on me,” he tries, not very bashfully as Mickey glares at him, trying to decide if he should just spit it out on Ian’s fucking stomach, or try to get his own stupid dick interested in doing anything other than just hang there just so he can pay him back, but Ian likes it when Mickey cums in his mouth so it doesn’t even fucking make a difference. And now the idiot is shrugging and a fucking smirk is spreading on his face and he’s grabbing the back of Mickey’s head to draw him near. His tongue darts out of his mouth and he licks up the dribble in the corner of Mickey’s mouth and announces, “we’re even,” before he crashes into Mickey’s mouth with his own and all Mickey can think is this idiot has been watching too much porn lately or some shit, ‘cause that was fuckin’ weird. 

When he finally pulls out of the kiss his fuckin’ hands are wandering again, trying to make a go for Mickey’s asshole again and thank fucking god for the sound of a fuckin’ crying baby because apparently the fuckhead didn’t get the message the first fucking time, but it’s totally okay to say, “Yev’s crying,” without making him think he’s being rejected, or being treated like a fuckin’ mistress or whatever other stupid fuckin’ shit he’s never understood about Mickey’s fucking life even after he pried his fucking way into it and witnessed some of the shit and still couldn’t acknowledge why Mickey was so fuckin’ reluctant and terrified to accept and display his homosexuality, so, “let me grab him before…”

“He wakes Svet,” he interrupts, immediately abandoning his task at hand to bolt out of bed and haphazardly throw dirty clothes on. He’s out the door and singing some stupid song at the kid before he’s even in the same room as the kid. He’s back in the damn bedroom before Mickey even has time to pull his shirt on and make the bed, “there’s daddy,” he sing-songs to the kid’s head as he bobbles him on a hip and smiles towards Mickey. And whatever the fuck that fucking shit he just did is gone. And he looks like Ian again. Sort of. Mickey can still feel the vibrating in the air between them, that surge of raw energy that’s burning Ian from the inside out and reaching out to char Mickey in the process. 

The kid looks a little like he feels it too, that pinched crying that happens when a stranger holds him. Not subsiding even though Ian is kissing his head and bobbling him against his chest, “okay tough guy, gimme the butterball and go get a bottle made.”

He takes a deep whiff of the kids bald head before he passes him over, “be right back.”

“No shit,” mumbling to the soft blob of human that’s settling himself comfortably on Mickey’s chest. And he smells like shit. Great, “well let’s get that taken care of,” his big round head lolls back, looking up at Mickey with his mother’s eyes and a strange understanding in them, “yeah yeah kid, I’m startin’ to come around. I’m yours and you’re mine, and it don’t matter if I want it or not. We’re together in that, huh? Ya zavzhdy budu poruch,” fucking bastard smiles at him. Mickey feels himself exhale and when he feels it, he wonders how the fuck long a person can hold their breath before they fuckin’ suffocate under the weight of loving someone with an untreated mental disorder, “guess we’ll fuckin’ find out, huh?” pressing his lips against the kid’s head as he steps out into the living room, watching Ian flitting around the kitchen like the biggest fucking hummingbird on the planet. 

————

Eyes closed, deep breath. Desert air. Ian’s presence behind him. A goddamn box postmarked from Chicago, some fuckin’ rich neighborhood, Yevgeny Milkovich. Fuck, his hands shake as he sets it on the table. Taking a step back to stare at it for a moment. Heart suspended in his chest, “it ain’t like it’s a fuckin’ bomb,” he hears himself announce, then shrugs, turning his head to look at Ian, “‘spose it could be,” with a smirk, “it is Svetlana.”

A smile spreads slowly, a little uncertain, but at least he doesn’t look like a sad puppy. At least he can recognize now that sometimes Mickey does need some fucking physical space. Sometimes he needs some fucking peace and quiet to sort out his own fuckin’ overactive mind before he can speak without being an asshole. 

“So, ah, how’d she sound on the phone then?”

“Maybe I should have told you. I just didn’t want you to get mad at me, or be all nervous, you know, knowing it was coming but not knowing when it would be here. And…”

His hands meet Ian’s shoulders, “I’m not mad,” locking eye contact, “just kinda…” shrugging.

“Overwhelmed.”

“Yeah,” squeezing reassuringly before backing away, “I don’ know. It’s like I’m just a fuckin’ shadow or somethin’ in the kid’s life, and I don’t know him anymore, he don’t know me. Just seems, man, like if Terry had ever…” his voice trails off, trying to put himself in his kid’s shoes. If Terry had ever acknowledged his kid’s birthdays or even their presence and the fact that they were living breathing things with emotions and needs and wants, fuck. His eyes close, fingers meeting lids. Grinding, “I don’t know.”

Ian lets the silence linger for about thirty seconds, then his hand meets the small of Mickey’s back and he whispers, “you’re doing great Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hypersexuality - it's a compulsion. And a person experiencing compulsions will never enjoy them. It's never fun to have to wash your hands three times, or turn the doorknob three times, or check the oven three times; nor would it be fun to feel a compulsion towards sex. As far as Mickey is concerned on the receiving end of it, I look at it this way - after you have a weekend sexcapade with your partner, you've enjoyed it and been sated, and when Monday rolls around you think if you see another dick in your life you're going to cry. But for him it wouldn't end on Monday. It would end when the compulsion ends. And as we saw, as it progresses, Ian would be getting more and more risky and out of character with his actions (strangers, public places, porn). I don't want this to look like Ian is coercing Mickey to have sex with him, I don't view it that way, but it would be hard for Mickey to draw that line when he knows it's part of the disorder but doesn't know much about it and also wants his partner to feel safe and stay faithful. Which then of course blows up in both of their faces anyway. But he tried.


	47. I See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more painful flashback to put to bed.

I See You

 

He’s been sitting at the table sifting through drawings and notes, letters transcribed by Svetlana for the most part. He’s been at it for an hour now. Yev must have drawn a picture and written a note every single time Mickey sent a card. Ian’s favorite is the one that Mickey left sitting open next to his left hand, the one his fingers keep glancing over with a smile on his face. It’s a picture Yev drew of himself meeting his dad now, and an actual photo of Mickey holding Yev when he was a baby, they’re sitting on the couch and Mickey is so wrapped up in Yev’s little face that he must not have noticed Svet taking the photo. Otherwise he would have flipped her the bird. In partial crayon child lettering and in partial penmanship the lettering states that he’s excited to meet his dad. That his mom says he has his dad’s eyebrows but he doesn’t understand what that means because if he has Dad’s eyebrows then does that mean Dad doesn’t have any? And he can’t wait to find out if Dad has eyebrows. And Mom also says that he has his dad’s temper. 

Ian can’t wait to meet this kid. Relearn him now that he’s a little older. It’s true, he failed Yev just as much as Mickey did, if not more. He was still a free man, he could still visit him whenever the fuck he wanted. Knowing Svet would never trust him alone with the boy again, but who could blame her? That didn’t mean she wouldn’t give in eventually and let him visit with him while Kev was home. How fucking easy would it have been to just walk over there and apologize? 

“So, um, you think you’ll be okay with, um…”

“Not killing Svet for hooking me up with the fuckin’ Russians in the first place and then pretending I no longer existed once she couldn’t make a dime off me anymore?”

“Exactly that.”

“I don’t know. I guess for the kid’s sake, right?”

“Right.”

“Not like she wanted any of the shit she got either. Doubt she wanted to fuck the faggot out of some bloody teenager half conscious on a couch at gunpoint, huh?”

“Doubt it,” he agrees. It churns up in his stomach and he fights it. If Mickey wants to talk about it, he will. And Ian will not picture it in his head. And Ian will not tell him, ‘I can’t get it out of my head’. And Ian will not expect him to just open up and let it all pour out, it isn’t about Ian. It’s about Mickey. 

He thumbs his nose, eyes landing on the papers spread out in front of him. This time the smile doesn’t rise. 

————

He woke up spooning him. His back radiating heat against Ian’s chest. A layer of sweat between them. So much heat, the guy was on fire. He was burning a hole through Ian’s skin. But Ian didn’t move. He loved that heat. He loved it spreading through his body. He’d never need a blanket, even in the coldest of winter nights, if he had Mickey. And he’d never need drugs or booze if he woke every morning to that scent. Intoxicating scent. Swirling through his mind, making him forget everything else in this world. 

He didn’t look back at Ian when he stepped out of bed. Watching as he stepped into a dirty pair of boxers on the floor. Ian should have reached out. Taken hold of his wrist. Pulled him back in. But he didn’t. 

Sitting next to each other on the couch. Playing a video game, eating cereal. Silence, but it was comfortable silence. Ian should have sat closer. Rested a leg against Mick’s. But he didn’t. 

And when Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him and asked, “one more for the road firecrotch?” He should have said no. 

No Mick, not one more for the road. I’m not going anywhere. Fuck work. Fuck the group home. Fuck the entire rest of the world. The only thing that matters is right here. Right here in front of me. And I’m not leaving it. I’m never leaving it. 

But he didn’t. 

“You shove ‘em in my ass and pull ‘em out real slow”, so much trust in his face. So much fucking trust in his face. And hope. The hope that Ian would see it. See that he was putting himself out there by asking. By trusting. By wondering, can you pleasure me selflessly and trust me to return the favor later? Can you be the first person in my life that I can trust? Can you be the first person in my life that doesn’t want to hurt me? That wants to see me happy?

“What’s in it for me?” 

You fucking idiot. You fucking idiot. What’s in it for you? What, huh? Seeing that blitzed out half-mad pleasure in those eyes. Seeing that comfort, that trust, that openness. Putting his body completely in your hands. Seeing that glaze again. The one you saw last night. Lighting that fire. And letting it burn. Letting it fucking burn until you’re both engulfed in flames. 

And he should have grabbed the beads. And grabbed Mickey. And shoved him towards his bedroom. He should have locked the door behind them and shoved every single fucking bead he wanted up his ass. And pulled them out so fucking slow it would take half the fucking day. And if he wanted more he should have given him more. 

But he didn’t. 

Instead he shoved his shoulder. Steering him to take the position. The position for the guy who wants nothing more than his ass. That was Mickey’s comfort zone anyway. Sure, he’d let his guard down last night but now Ian has shit to do and he has to get back to work, and back to the group home, and back to his family who needs him. 

“Ride him until he likes it.” 

Those eyes, the ones that were so full of bliss last night, begging. Begging, please see me Ian. Please see me. Don’t see this. Instead see what this has done to me. See that this is my life. This is my life. And this is why. This is exactly why I push you away. This is exactly why I act like you don’t matter. Like all we have between us is sex. Please see it.

But Ian didn’t see it. All he saw was that broken face. That resignation in his body. Grabbing her and turning her over. Taking control to prove it. Prove he’s not a faggot. Prove it to his dad. And to himself. And to Ian. 

‘You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me’, but Ian never believed that. Because Mickey never believed that. He didn’t believe it when he said it and he certainly didn’t believe it when he punched that cop to put himself behind bars again. Protecting himself from himself. And from his father.

What could he have done? 

He threw himself on his father’s back, yanking him off Ian. Forcing him to turn his rage on his son. Because Terry could do whatever he wanted to his son, he could beat him and break him, but he wasn’t allowed to touch Ian. Not as long as Mick was breathing.  
How many times had Terry hit him, kicked him, screamed at him; and he took it? He just took his beatings every single time and never fought back. He’d never fight back. His father smashed the shells of his babies before they were ready to hatch. Dragged them out of their safety, threw their helpless bodies into the dirt and watched them struggle. Watched them struggle to survive. And every time they’d gain strength of their own, he’d kick more dirt at them. But they knew, they knew never to fight back. They were trained to stay still and take it. Take their beatings. Accept their lot in life. Never try to fly. Never try to stray too far from the nest. They belonged to him. They were his to beat, bruise, and bloody. They knew better than to question that.

Ian bit his knuckle and tried not to scream. Watching those asscheeks, peppered with pellets, scars that would always be there. Always. And the one in his thigh. From Kash. 

He tried not to scream and he tried not to cry. He sat still and forced himself not to drag Mickey off the whore. Not to go for the baseball bat by the door. Swing at Terry’s head until it he was nothing but broken skull and blood. 

He forced himself to sit still and watch. Because there was Terry. Pointing the gun at him. The sneer on his face, watch this faggot, watch this. Memorize this. This is what happens if you come near my son again. Milkoviches aren’t faggots. My kids are my property. My property and I do what I wish with them. What I say goes. And no son of mine will be a faggot. 

Then it was over. Mickey was lying limply against the whore. The whore was being strangely gentle in removing him from her. It wasn’t her fault. She had been called over to do a job. She had a gun shoved in her face. She was told to do her job. Even though the boy was bloody and destroyed. She had to do her job. And now she’s helping him pull his boxers up. And she’s pulling her dress down. 

Terry’s aiming at Ian once again, growling, “get the fuck out of here faggot.”

And Mickey doesn’t move. His eyes don’t rise. His body slumped against the couch. The couch where he had sat on Ian’s lap last night, kissing him like it was the finest thing he had ever done. Taking bricks out of his wall, letting them fall to the ground carelessly. Letting himself show. Letting himself feel. 

Ian can’t stop watching his nearly lifeless form now. And he can barely get himself to walk out that door. Clothes in his hands, finishing pulling them on before he descends the porch steps. The whore leaving behind him. 

————

He didn’t see it then. He didn’t see any of it. He didn’t see Mickey begging him silently to understand. To see him. But as it reels through his mind like old black and white movie, he gets it. He gets it now, his hand lands on top of Mickey’s and he doesn’t speak. He watches as a lone tear slides out of the corner of his eye, down his cheek. He reaches for it when it comes to the corner of his mouth, smudging it out between his fingers before he clasps Mickey’s chin, aiming his gaze, “I love you.”

His first instinct is to twist out of Ian’s grasp. So he lets him. As much as Ian remembers, Mickey probably remembers every single detail in sharp vivid tones, in loud clear noises. And he had to sleep with that woman for how long? He had to marry her and play house with her while she threatened to out him to his father. His father who had put them in that position to begin with. 

‘Was Mickey adopted?’ What the fuck Ian? Fuck. 

His own breath shakes and he feels himself reaching for Mickey. Pulling him into his chest and he doesn’t pull away. He leans. Not wrapping his arms around Ian, but leaning, keeping his arms in tight against his own chest like he’s not ready yet to allow all of this to be cut and bleed out. Ian kisses the top of his head, “I love you,” again, just in case he didn’t hear him the first time, “and I do see you Mick. I see all of you. And I love all of you. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the rape scene looks familiar it's because I couldn't bring myself to relive it - I snagged it out of Fire Ants. And now that I've put it in this scenario where it'd be a mixture of then and looking back now, it's probably more fitting than a stand alone. 
> 
> I think that's the last of the super heavy flashbacks, a couple are still to come that are a little bittersweet, but I feel pretty okay about the ones we've covered here.


	48. Stupid Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How is Ian managing while Mickey's off earning some dough?
> 
> Two flashbacks, and a talk about visiting Chicago.

Stupid Dick

 

“The fuck’s this about?” tossing his bag on the middle of his cot, or the one he assumes is his cot now that they’re pushed up next to each other on the far side of the wall. 

Furniture rearranging is not a good sign, but when he turns to smile at Mick it looks normal, “this way we can be right next to each other, but still have space. You know, for like when you need space, it’s clear which side is yours and we have a little dip between the mattresses to keep my on my side. Or when it’s still above a hundred fucking degrees when we go to sleep but we still want to be able to be close,” he shrugs. It’s not one of those shrugs where his shoulders hit his ears, so Mickey exhales, “how’d you do?”

“Took the night,” shrugging with an unintended wince, “this early in the season though, don’t mean much.”

“Yeah it does,” smile turning into that dopey proud grin, “it means you won the night Mick. It means you’re the best in the…”

“Shut the fuck up,” not completely stifling the rising smile.

“Okay, not ready for compliments, I can take a hint,” leaning in for a kiss, gentle and quick. He starts emptying Mickey’s bag, removing the dirty laundry.

“You don’t gotta do that,” reminding him.

“I know. But you won’t, so…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” when he sits on the mattress he realizes how fuckin’ tired he is. Sore, achy, exhausted. In a good way. Falling onto his back, the dip between the beds is actually an okay place to let his shoulder-blades fall into.

“So, um, you see Eduardo?” trying to sound all uninterested, like he’s making small talk or some shit.

“You serious firecrotch? You really jealous of that weird fucker?”

“No,” answering way too quickly to be convincing.

“K, well when you wanna list off all the dudes that have touched your body when I wasn’t around, you fuckin’ go ahead. And I’ll let you know in detail how Eduardo touched my body. You really wanna fuckin’ go there.”

“No. I don’t. It’s just that, I mean, he’s here. He’s around you every weekend. And he’s…”

“You really think I’d cheat on you? Fuckin’ now? You wanna get all paranoid and jealous then maybe I should be worried about you bein’ in the village without me, huh?”

“No. Let’s forget about it, I’m just…”

Mickey sits up, reaching for Ian’s arm as he walks past him with his empty bag, “sit down tough guy,” giving him a weak tug. Waiting until he does, and until he looks over his shoulder to make eye contact. Reaching out to slide fingers through his hair, “you got nothin’ to fuckin’ worry about, alright?”

“I know. I just,” heavy sigh, “I need something to do when you’re gone. I just,” his hand slides over to Mickey’s, “worry,” turning it over to inspect his knuckles one by one, “so you need a massage or anything?”

“Well I ain’t gonna turn one down,” taking his chin to aim his gaze, “you don’t gotta worry about me. I’d tell you to come, but you’d distract me way too much.”

“I don’t want to come anyway, I can’t watch that, I mean I can watch that without freaking out, but I can’t watch you getting hurt without wanting to stop it somehow,” he shrugs with a breathy little huff exiting his lips, “I’ll just learn a hobby or something to keep me busy Maybe Lou could teach me how to whittle or something.”

“Yeah, or something useful. You been to the library at the main house yet?”

“Library?”

“Yeah, ya know, books, magazines, they’ve got like every issue ever of National Geographic.”

That damn proud smile is rising again and Mickey feels his cheeks warming up. But Milkoviches don’t blush, clearing his throat and averting his eyes. His face is immediately buried in Mickey’s neck, “bring me over there tomorrow?”

“Yah. Now give me that rub down.”

Lips on overheated flesh, “okay.”

————

The night is cool, damp. The guy is on his knees in the wet grass, looking up at Mickey, listing his prices as he reaches for Mickey’s belt. His face is too round. Too innocent looking. Fuck, he looks way too young. 

The sound of his zipper makes him cringe. Fuck, if that fuckin’ idiot would just answer his fucking phone. Why the fuck would he take off with Monica? Why the fuck would those stupid fuckin’ Army fucks release a bipolar nutcase to another bipolar nutcase? Fuckin’ douchebags. How the fuck could his siblings just sit there and list off all the shit he’s done, right there in front of him, like he’s just some kind of fucking weight that they don’t want to carry anymore? Fuck them. 

Fuck bipolar. Fuck.

Kid’s hands are sliding his jeans down his legs, reaching up the leg of his boxers. Good fuckin’ fuck. His dick’s not even pretending to be interested yet. All that ginger fuckhead had to do was get on his damn knees and his stupid dick would respond with at least a tingle of lightning. Goddamnit. Fuck this.

“Stop,” backing away, jerking his jeans back on, “get the fuck off your knees for a fuckin’ stranger,” parting with a ten dollar bill that he hates fuckin’ parting with but maybe that stupid fucking ginger fuckhead has gotten to him in the last few years, makin’ him think people are fuckin’ people or some shit. They’re all just people tryin’ to make their own fuckin’ way through the same stupid shitty fuckin’ garbage that everyone has to deal with so maybe Mickey shouldn’t just assume everyone is a piece of shit. But everyone is a piece of shit, “learn a unique skill dipshit,” over his shoulder as he walks away. 

Stupid fuckin’ cock. It’ll never respond for anyone else the way it does for that idiot. No use in even tryin’ anymore.

————

The whole beds-right-next-to-each-other thing ain’t so bad. He’s melted into his own mattress. Ian is lying on his side on his own mattress. But now he can just reach out and lay a hand on his cheek. To which he receives a tired smile. 

“I, uh, when you were released from the looney bin,” sliding his thumb over his lips, “I should have been there to pick you up. I, fuck, I just…”

“No, don’t apologize for that please. You already did. You did so much for me, and tried so hard to keep me sane, keep me out of the psych ward. You tried so fucking hard Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah and it ain’t my fault that…”

“It wasn’t,” his brows dip inward, hand rising to grip Mickey’s wrist, “it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could and more, and you had every right to fall apart and drink yourself stupid. If the tables were turned,” fingers sliding across Mickey’s palm, slipping between his, turning his hand to his lips, “I don’t know if I could have been nearly as strong for you as you were for me. And, you know, I never told you,” stars swirling on a green blanket, “all those times you used to whisper that you loved me and I never said it back. But I did, I loved you. I hope you know that. And I hope you know it was the only thing keeping me breathing.”

————

“Alright, come on shithead,” sighing, landing heavily on the edge of the bed next to his curled up form, “St. Patrick’s Day man, let’s go to the parade.”

“So tired.”

“Yeah I know,” well at least he isn’t hollering at him to leave him alone anymore. He even showered himself this morning, then went right back to bed but at least Mickey didn’t have to maneuver is mostly dead weight into the tub, “sun’s out. We ain’t gotta walk far, take the nugget down there for a bit. And maybe this weekend if you’re up for it we can go down to the stupid fuckin’ river dyin’ bullshit.”

The watery surface of his green eyes is the only watery green thing Mickey ever needs to see, but all that bullshit is probably something Gallagher is into so if it gets him out of this stuffy fuckin’ bedroom then he’ll go. His face appears from under the covers, Mickey’s hand meets the side of his head, running fingers through his hair. At least he’s been touching again, and allowing a touch without wincing at the contact, “just for a little bit tough guy. Sun’ll feel good after this fuckin’ cold ass winter.”

“Okay,” agreeing reluctantly, but it’s a start.

“I lo…” it catches right there in the back of his mouth. As often as he’s been whispering it against his spine lately, it’s different when those eyes are locked on to his, “I looked for your fleece jacket, couldn’t find it,” heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. Fuckin’ stupid save there.

“Think it’s still at home.”

“I’ll get the nugget ready, we’ll grab your jacket on the way, you’ll get too warm in your winter jacket.”

Slow nod. And a little flicker across his iris, a tiny shooting star and a lame tired smile. Asshole knows exactly what Mickey was going to say. Fucker. Tapping his cheek before he leaves the room.

————

“So, there any particular thing you wanna go back to Chicago for? Like an event or some shit?”

Shrug. Mickey’s papers came during the week. Guess they’re free and clear. He was still suspicious that this was some kind of bullshit, that he’d never see his documents instead he’d end up in cuffs again, “might be nice to go in spring or fall, see something other than hot and sunny.”

“Maybe in the spring,” he won’t say it. Maybe he should. Or maybe Ian already knows. 

Yeah he already knows, smile rising rapidly, “Yev’s birthday.”

He’s spoken to him on the phone a few times now. The first was utter disaster, as soon as he heard that little voice he couldn’t get a single fuckin’ word out of his mouth. Everything he tried kept lodging in his throat, stuck behind that ball of abandonment and regret. He stood there with his mouth open, choking up into the phone with tears stinging the shit out of his eyes while the desert dirt around him started blurring and fading away. Ian’s hands on his back finally forced a broken, “I miss you,” to part his lips. The little shit is a chatter box, probably didn’t even notice that Mickey barely said a word the whole time. 

“Think when we go, we should just VRBO a place close to Svet or something. Instead of staying in the Southside,” he shrugs. And what he wants to say is to make sure there’s no chance of Mickey running into his old man. 

And Mickey knows that too, “the fuck’s VRBO?”

“Like Home Away. People post their houses online, you can rent a house or apartment or whatever for a weekend or week. Vacation rentals,” he shrugs.

“Fuckever that means.”

Asshole smiles at him like he’s the most ignorant fuck on the planet, “just means you get to rent a home for a vacation instead of staying in a hotel or with relatives or whatever.”

“Oh.”

“Then if we get Lou and Rosa to come with us, we can find somewhere they’d be more comfortable.”

“Like a tent in the middle of the desert? Ain’t gonna find that in Chicago.”

Fuckin’ grin, “no I guess we won’t. But at least it’ll be less overwhelming than trying to stay with my family or something. Guess we should start applying for citizenship here, then we can officially adopt Rosa, no way in Hell we’ll cross the border with her before that’s in place. They’d probably put her one of those pens,” visibly cringing at the thought. 

“Maybe that’s what you can do while you’re bored during the fights next week. Learn Spanish. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

“Okay,” leaning forward to kiss Mickey’s mouth that’s half-melted into his pillow and damn sure isn’t going to lift his head to give him full access. HIs lips are so warm. So soft. And so damn demanding that Mickey is going to give in. Tilting his head just far enough to allow for an easy tongue-kiss. He’s way too fuckin’ exhausted to make-out. Or fuck. But leave it to his stupid dick to start hardening at the feel of Ian’s tongue running along the edge of his bottom lip. Stupid fuckin’ cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else get the impression that the kid in the park was someone who's company came with a price tag? Fuck canon, Mickey wouldn't have cheated at that point in their relationship.


	49. Wordless Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making wedding plans.

Wordless Gratitude 

 

“How about this Mick?” tilting the laptop screen, “Garfield park apartment.”

“For what?” 

“For the week we go to Chicago.”

“Oh,” eyebrows lifted as he scans over the information on the screen, “gettin’ ahead of yourself firecrotch.”

“It never hurts to start looking now. Then as soon as we have a date for airfare, we can book a place to stay.”

“Two bedrooms. You honestly think you’ll convince Lou to come? And man, I don’t know, even with all the right shit in place for Rosa, I just,” his voice trails off, fingers rising to meet his eyelids.

“I get it. I’m not sure about bringing her either. But what to we do? Wait until after the next presidential election and hope for the best? If we want to get married this trip, then I want her there.”

“Woe, who said anything about getting married this trip?”

“Um,” swallowing a blush, heart hitting with a hard thud to his ribcage, “I just thought, I mean if we want our families to be there. I just thought we’d, what’s the sense in waiting?”

He sits down with a heavy sigh on the couch, leaning back immediately and chewing on his words for a long moment. Knowing whatever he says is going to break Ian’s heart.

“Just say it Mick,” he urges, but his voice sounds small and apprehensive.

Blinking away the fog he caused on that ocean, “my family’s not in Chicago Ian.”

“I know, but that’s why I want them to come.”

“No, you don’t,” cutting himself off before he can tell him he doesn’t understand, that he’ll never understand, “you really think I want to wear a fuckin’ tux again and say stupid fuckin’ vows in front of a priest from a religion I don’t even practice, in front of a bunch of people I give fuckall about?”

“Well, no, but it’d be different this time Mickey,” trying to keep himself from taking it personally.

‘It’s a piece of paper’. ‘Not to me’. 

Chewing so vigorously on his lower lip, Ian’s not sure how he doesn’t bite through it.

“I don’t care if we do it at the courthouse, but I do want my siblings there. And I don’t care if we have some reception, or just a damn block party afterwards, but I want to do it in Chicago. I want to do it in the place I met you, and fell in love with you, and wouldn’t it feel like a giant middle finger to Terry to have a gay wedding after-party at the Alibi? Or on the streets of the Southside? Wouldn’t it feel…”

“No,” he blurts it out quickly and then stares at Ian like he’s afraid he just slapped him. Jolting to his feet, hands wiping the entirety of his face, “it wouldn’t feel like anything. A fuckin’ wedding shouldn’t be about takin’ a fuckin’ pride stand, it should be about the marriage to follow. It’s a damn day where two people are supposed to seal their love for one another legally. Not some fuckin’ forced bullshit with a goddamn whore. And not some rainbow flag wavin’ middle finger to my father. I get it, you want your siblings there, but you really want Chicago? You really want the place we beat the hell out of each other, cheated on each other, lied to each other, destroyed ourselves for each other; to be the backdrop for our future together?” his eyebrows are darted up to mid-forehead, lips immediately pressing together after he’s done speaking like he can’t believe any of that shit made it out of his mouth. 

Ian can’t help the grin that’s rising, reaching out to touch his hip, “why don’t you just blurt out how you fuckin’ feel, huh?”

“Fuck you. And I don’t need some fuckin’ Gay Jesus bullshit happening at my damn wedding either tough guy.”

Sighing as his second hand lands on Mickey’s hip, pulling him closer. Tilting his head back to watch his face while his brows start returning to a normal level and his ocean eyes flood over Ian with all the other words he won’t blurt out, “alright. I kinda like the second place I fell in love with you too. I kinda love the second place I fell in love with you. Think we could make a go of the desert, there’s enough space here on the complex, if Rocky’s okay with it, to welcome half the Southside here for a weekend.”

“You don’t want some queer shit destination garbage at a resort?”

“Fuck no. Mick, I want you. I want to put a ring on your finger and kiss you as my husband. I want to sign the marriage certificate, celebrate it with our families until they’re all passed out drunk, then head home and fuck the hell out of you as my husband.”

“Home?”

“Home,” sweeping his hand across the room, the window where their quarters are visible from this seat, “here. I mean, really Rocky and Martin have been better parents to both of us than our parents - with the exception of your mom - Lou has been a more supportive and understanding sibling than either of us truly have. And Rosa,” a sweet smile lifts the corners of Mickey’s lips at just the mention of her name, “Rosa’s here. So home is here,” giving his hips a dirty tug to bring him close enough to bury his face in Mickey’s rock solid abdomen, “so maybe we go to Chicago just the two of us for Yev’s birthday. We stay a week or two, however long you think you can deal with. Then in off-season when airfare is cheap to Mexico we have a wedding. We know Svet can afford to send Yev. We know my siblings are broke as fuck, but by then I might have enough saved up to buy their tickets. Kev and V, could you imagine them in a place like this?”

“Fuck no. Veronica and her stupid shoes in this dirt?”

“And if everyone wants to, we can take a day trip to the beach while they’re here.”

“Ian,” he sighs his name like his head is landing on his pillow at the end of a long day, “I’ve got plenty of cash from the fights. You don’t gotta save up and wait like a year to get this shit done if you don’t want to.”

“Not me,” leaning out of his body now to lock eye contact, “we. We decide together Mickey. And no, I don’t want you spending all your…”

“Ours. What the fuck else am I gonna spend it on? Ain’t like Svet needs child support. We ain’t payin’ rent here. No bank account to add your name to or some shit, but suppose I could give you the combo to my safe,” he shrugs. Hands meeting Ian’s head and stroking his hair back, “someday we should buy a place on the ocean.”

“Deal,” his hands have found their way to Mickey’s asscheeks, “a nice little bungalow, front door opens to nothing but sand. We can hear the waves crashing the beach all day every day.”

“Yeah,” content smile on his perfect lips, “exactly like that tough guy.”

“So, you think we could convince Lou to get ordained?”

“Fuck no,” he snorts, “but I want to be there when you ask her,” grinning with a playful arch to his brow.

At the sight of Mickey’s smile there’s no way in hell Ian’s face wouldn’t respond in kind.

‘You ever think back in the day…’

————

“Hey Mick?”

“Who the fuck else would it be?”

“I know who it is,” he laughs, rolling to his side to face Mickey’s, “just checking to see if you’re still awake.”

“I laid down like thirty seconds ago, of course I’m still awake fuckface,” lips pursed in annoyance. A trace of the glitter Fiona threw at them at the parade still clinging to his hair.

Ian reaches out to capture the green speck on his forefinger. Blowing it like a dandelion puff towards the floor. He inches himself closer to Mickey, burrowing his face against his hip, arm strewn over his leg, “thank you.”

“For what?” hand immediately finding Ian’s hair and sliding it though his fingers. 

“Making me leave the house today,” he’s exhausted and his limbs feel like they weigh a million pounds a piece but Mickey was right about the sunshine. 

He grumbles a response that Ian can’t translate. They can’t accept compliments and they can’t accept gratitude. Damn Milkoviches.   
His forehead against Mickey’s side, nose pressed tight against the flat bone of his hip, breath meeting the thin fabric of his boxers. Without thinking about it, his hand has turned inward, fingers finding the other side of his body where his hip becomes his ass. Spreading out against him. Mickey doesn’t say anything but Ian is face to face with his hardening dick beneath his boxers. And all this time spent lying in bed beside him, barely moving, hearing Mickey’s whispered affirmations of love; he never once thought of Mickey’s physical desires being squashed as he watched what was happening to his lover. 

No hiding it now. No reason to. Ian’s limbs feel heavy, his body is uninspired, and his dick is uninterested even as he watches Mickey’s body respond to his heat right in front of him. Feeling Mickey’s eyes on him, he doesn’t return the contact as his fingers grip his boxers, sliding them down, “you don’t have to…”

“Shh,” maybe he can’t accept gratitude with words, but he won’t turn it down in the form of a hand-job. If only he had the energy to suck his dick. Settling his cheek closer to get a complete eye-full of that perfect cock. Up close it’s even perfect. There’s no way in Hell, even a few months ago, that Mickey would have allowed Ian to just lay here mere inches away from his cock and stare at it as he worked it over with his hand, “how is it possible for every single inch of you to be so fucking perfect?” it’s barely whispered and he’s certain Mickey didn’t hear it over the rushing of orgasm in his head as he pulses under Ian’s grip, “would it be weird if I licked that off your stomach?”

“Yes,” half-sighed, half-grunted, “don’t ever fucking do that,” grabbing a dirty t-shirt off the floor to mop it up. 

As soon as he leans back down Ian’s cheek meets his bare skin. The skin that’s still a little tacky with leftover cum. 

“Don’t you fucking dare firecrotch,” warning growl. 

Too late, turning his face to lick a strip up his flesh with the remaining flavor of his essence, kissing his bellybutton while he listens to Mickey’s huffs of annoyance. But his hands are sliding through his hair again and he’s relaxing into the mattress.

“Fuck, you’re queer,” when his lips meet the top of Ian’s head. He can hear the smile in his voice and feel his own face respond where it’s buried in his chest, exactly where it’s going to stay all night. 

————

Ball cap tipped down over her face, feet propped on the table. The soles of them are filthy, permanently embedded with desert dirt. She’s leaned back on the back two legs of the chair, Ian’s certain it’s as far back as the chair is capable of being without tipping over. Fuck, he’s nervous to talk to her. As much as he’s grown to love her, respect her, and feel comfortable around her; he’s still physically terrified of her. Never having been on the receiving end of her temper, certain he never wants to be. 

Maybe some other time, turning to head back to their sleeping quarters. Stopped two steps away by a demand, “what the fuck you want guano?”

“What? Nothing. Just…”

“Interrupting my fuckin’ siesta.”

“I know. I’ll, um, come back later.”

“Well I’m awake now, ain’t I?”

“Yes, but I’ll leave you alone. I can…”

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the ball cap removed, a smirk rising. Becoming a laugh when she sees how wide his eyes have gotten, “really thought I didn’t know?”

“No. I mean, yes. I thought… you and Mickey just lay around and gossip like a bunch of high school girls when you’re on the mats? Is that what you’re doing between rounds?”

“That’s exactly what we’re doing between rounds,” one eyebrow arced up beyond the frame of her aviators. Hands behind her head, not bothering to return the chair’s front legs to the ground.

“So he asked you?”

“Asked me what?”

“If you’ll officiate our wedding?”

“Fuck no,” snorting a laugh.

“Fuck no like he didn’t ask, or fuck no like you won’t?”

“Yes. Both of those.”

“Yes to both of those?”

“No. Get fucked.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time around impossible people. You seriously take the cake.”

“Thank you, love.”

“That’s not really a compliment.”

“I know. Now get fucked.”

“I’m planning to when it cools off a little, and maybe if you weren’t so fucking impossible you might get fucked every once in awhile too.”

“Creative,” smirk remaining on her face, he’s certain her eyes are twinkling, wondering, “you really think you got the pussy to talk trash to me guano?”

“Pussy?”

“Balls are weak as fuck. You want tough? That’s pussy.”

There’s not much sense in arguing that. Not much sense in arguing anything with this woman, but, “will you at least think about it?”  
“About what? Not being so impossible so I can get fucked?”

“No, Jesus.”

“Gay Jesus.”

“No, fuck, just think about officiating our wedding. It wouldn’t have to be anything fancy,” she snorts as soon as the word is past his lips and he wonders if she’s ever worn a dress a day in her life, “you won’t have to dress up much. It’s not like some big affair. But Rocky agreed to let some family stay here for a few days, and we just want to have a little vow exchange, ring exchange. You won’t even have to say much, really, we just want it to be you because you’re like this snarky bitchy guardian angel that found us both in Purgatory and gave us the second chance to do things right. If it wasn’t for you and Rocky, Mickey would probably have ended up in cartel shit and back in prison. And if it wasn’t for you and Charlie, I would be dead. So it just seems fitting that you’d be the one to oversee our nuptials.”

“Nuptials? That mean I gotta witness the consummation too?”

“Only if you want to,” smirking right back at her.

“Yo pretty boy,” she hollers over her shoulder towards the open door of the main house where Ian has heard Mickey and Rosa’s gentle laughter off and on the whole time he’s been standing here, “your fiancee needs to get fucked,” middle finger popping up from behind her head, mouthing it now without losing the smirk, ‘get fucked’, the ball cap returning to cover her face. 

“So that means you’ll think about it?” he wonders.

Met with a second middle finger rising behind her head. 

“Good talk,” laughing on his way to the house, knowing she’ll cave eventually. If not for Ian, then definitely for Mickey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of the reasons I wanted to explore the story from where Ian takes off for Mexico - I wanted them to build a life outside of their past. I wanted them to have the family support that Ian wasn't necessarily getting anymore in the Gallagher house. I wanted Mickey to have an experience outside of Ian that would be profoundly positive on him individually before Ian even entered the mix. And just to get them away from external factors that they battled in Chicago. I loved them because of the passion they were portrayed with - I didn't love the bulk of the shit they put each other through unless it actually did make them stronger, which prison was not a place I saw that happening. 
> 
> I know, this is getting insanely long winded. I have a few things I will wrap up in Chicago, but I promise I won't take a whole hell of a lot more of your time. Thanks again if you're still with me!


	50. I Still Love Dandelions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Off to Chicago.

I Still Love Dandelions

 

Flying sucks. Everything about it sucks. It’s stuffy and hot, then it’s cold and bumpy and nauseating. And all Mickey wanted to do was get up and fling himself out the emergency door. Ian kept putting his clammy hand down overtop of Mickey’s on the armrest, like would help. And Lou was passed out on Valium on the other side of him and if that dumb bitch had shared her shit, it would have been different. He still has no idea how the fuck Ian convinced her to come along.

But this, right here. This would have been different too. Fuck Ian. He said he didn’t know who was picking them up, that it would probably be the entire damn Gallagher clan. Mickey almost believed him, almost. But fuck him for this. His eyes found her immediately. Her blue eyes and black hair. The way she stands like she’s not so sure she wants to exist, or at least not in a crowd where people can see her. And in her hand, in her hand is a little hand. A little boy with the same damn blue eyes. The little boy who’s voice Mickey has heard a hundred times on the phone line in the last few months. 

Fuck, he wasn’t prepared for this. That damn smile that Mandy has worn for so long, that one that’s kind of like half her face is trying to pretend she’s unimpressed while the other half gives her away before it gives into a real smile. A smile that lights up her eyes and she looks so much like Mom it sends a shot of pain through Mickey’s chest as she leans down and whispers to the kid. The kid’s eyes rise, finding Mickey through the thin crowd between them. His entire face is a smile and his free hand rises from his side, waving wildly like they’re long lost friends and he can make up the distance faster if he keeps waving. 

“What the fuck am I s’posed to do?” he hears himself whisper in a stupid fuckin’ shaky voice that makes him want to melt into a puddle on the floor, seep out the door of the airport and disappear into the gutter. 

Big clammy hand clamping down on his shoulder, voice steady and supportive instead of that old way of making Mickey feel like a complete fucking idiot, “go over there.”

He is. He’s already moving that way. But what is he supposed to do when he gets there? Shake his hand? Hug him? Punch his stupid sister in the jaw for being here, and knowing his kid well enough that she’s allowed to bring him here alone and he’s comfortable holding her hand? And where the fuck has she been all this time? And why the fuck didn’t the little shit kid ever mention her on the phone if they’re good old friends? He’s said so much shit about his damn rich pussy friends from his rich fuckin’ private school that Mickey already hates them and their parents for being such prissy assholes. 

He feels himself kneeling. His ears are rushing and the only thing he can focus on is the kid’s face. Part of him still hates his face. It’s a meeting of his own and the face of the whore that was paid to rape him one day, a day that he’ll never forget and never be able to remember. A permanent fixture in his life of one thing he’d die to erase.

But he kind of loves that face as it watches him. The smile not fading. His gentle little hand reaching out to touch Mickey’s cheek, “you do have eyebrows,” he grins and Mickey feels his own smile rising. Along with his brows. Along with some clouds in his chest, quickly finding the back of his throat and staying there. Blocking any words from exiting, forcing tears to burn at his eyes until he blinks and they escape, trailing down his cheek onto the kid’s hand. 

The damn kid’s brows are dipped in confusion but his smile hasn’t faded, he wipes the tear off Mickey’s cheek, “heart’s dew,” he smiles, tossing his arms around Mickey’s neck and burrowing his face into his chest. 

A wall falls inside of him, the sound of a glass encasement shattering around his heart and he gives way to the child’s tender embrace. 

“Aunt Mandy’s right. You give the best hugs, and you smell good.”

Fuck Aunt Mandy. Burying his face in the kid’s shoulder, fuck he never realized how relieved he’d be to know the kid is healthy, protected, safe. Loved. All the shit he never had. This kid has. The freedom to enjoy being a damn kid without the weight of a shitty father, a poor neighborhood, a dead mom. 

“Fuck,” it shakes out of his mouth into the kid’s warm bony shoulder.

“She also said I couldn’t repeat, like, anything you said.”

Leaning out of the embrace just far enough to look at his face, “she’s probably right.”

“Of course I’m right fuckwit. I’m a woman.”

His middle finger responds from behind Yevgeny’s back. To which both of hers respond. Same damn Mandy. But she looks healthy. And her eyes are twinkly. He hasn’t seen that in about a decade. All the unspoken shit between them will probably forever remain unspoken, but the nod she gives him is all he needs to know that she’s okay. 

The whole goddamn clan of Gallaghers is outside. Along with the Balls. Every single fucking one of them wrapped around Ian like a bunch of leeches as soon as he steps out into the the damp spring air. Fuck, it feels cold. Yevgeny’s warm little hand has found his and he’s grown quiet while he watches the band of Southside idiots all talking at once and asking too many fucking questions for Ian to answer any of them with more than shrugs and head nods or shakes. 

Turning his head to look over at Lou. A strange soft expression is on her face before she realizes he’s looking her way. It turns into her signature smirk when her calmly swirling galaxy glances over him and she sparks the joint that he has no desire to know where she was hiding to get through security. 

“Can’t really just stand here and smoke that,” he warns her.

“Do whatever the fuck I want pretty boy,” releasing a slow exhale with a half-cocked nod.

“Noticed,” grumbling at her.

“I like her already,” Mandy whispers to him before accepting the joint she’s holding out. 

“‘Course you do.”

————

“So you’re so close to my son that he has his own bedroom in your house? You have a fuckin’ house and you’re engaged? And you have an actual job complete with taxes and social security and all that shit? And Ian’s dumbass new all this shit, and didn’t bother to tell me?”

“Mmhm,” goddamn smug ginger. Sitting at the dining table in Mandy’s big ass house like he fuckin’ lives here. 

“Yah,” his sister responds, taking a seat with a glass of red wine for herself, passing one over to Mickey, “got a problem with that?”

“Well yeah. I mean, here I am thinkin’ you’re dead or beggin’ on a street corner, or sellin’ your body to keep a roof over your head. And here you are with a fuckin’ house.”

“Sometimes being an escort pays off in ways you don’t expect,” she smiles and he wants to reach across the table and smack her for doing a gig as an escort, “it paid for my marketing degree and my sparkling personality got me the first job I interviewed for.”  
“Where’s this fuckin’ fiancee and how many teeth I gotta knock out of his head when I meet him?”

“Not in the Southside anymore Mickey. Not everyone gets married because of a pregnancy,” leveling him with a glare, “Jason. And he’s a good guy. He works for the same company I do, he’s out of town until tomorrow. And you don’t have to knock any of his teeth out. We met at work, we work in different departments, but we got to know each other before we started sleeping together. I know, that’s just weird and old fashioned, barely heard of,” her smile keeps growing as she’s talking about him, “we’ve only been engaged for a week, planning a wedding for next spring. But I want,” her hand comes down on top of Mickey’s unexpectedly. Since when do Milkoviches touch each other gently? But it feels kind of nice when she squeezes his fingers, “I want you to be there.”

The pure happiness in her eyes makes him feel like he’s drowning. Fingers sliding out from under hers to thumb at his nose, forcing away that tickle that will eventually turn to tears because he’s turned into such a little bitch over all this emotional happy shit lately, “‘Course I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“Speaking of,” Ian interrupts. That big stupid dopey grin is rising on his face and he nudges Mickey with his elbow.

“You two?” her eyes get all big, hands coming up to cover her mouth. When they both nod, she squeals. That squeal she used to emit before Terry and all the other shitheads in their neighborhood convinced her she was nothing but a walking vagina. Back when she contained childlike joy and exuded happiness. When she used to get so exited over something stupid like a piece of sidewalk chalk Mickey stole from outside some shitty daycare center for her. And that stupid rusted bike he took from the curb before the garbage truck could pick it up, it had some dumb princess looking girls on it and a crooked wheel but Mandy loved it. She used to ride back and forth in front of their house with the biggest damn smile on her face, back and forth on the sidewalk squares, knowing she’d get an ass-beating if she left his field of vision from the front window. 

Well, at least a threat of one, it’s not like Mickey ever really did swat her. Except that one time. She disappeared around the corner of the house, and didn’t respond when he shouted for her. It was the spring after Mom died. The year they saw that thing on the news about the child abductors. And Mickey mostly resented Mandy’s little talkative shadow presence in his life, but he didn’t want to see her abducted by some stranger who wanted to sell her. Panic had taken hold of him quickly, knowing Dad didn’t give a shit about losing any of his boys but if any of his boys lost his little girl he’d fucking kill them and he’d make it slow and painful. So when he found her sitting beside the house plucking the yellow petals out of a dandelion after shouting for her about a hundred times and running frantically around the block, his voice being swallowed by the L and choked off by fear, he couldn’t process relief at seeing her big blue eyes staring at him like he was the problem for panicking in the first place. All he could see was how much he fucking hated her for making him care for her and protect her and fully realizing that day that he’d never be able to protect her because he couldn’t even protect himself. He swatted her butt, he just kept swatting it until he couldn’t fucking breathe and she was screeching so loud it was hurting his ears. And when he let her go and she looked at him like her entire universe had just fallen down and he had been the one to stomp on it, he threw up. Not that there was much to throw up. A few cheerios that they didn’t even have milk for. 

He’s hanging off the string of her eye contact now, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking about. And about all the times he heard Dad stumble into her room and she acted like it was nothing, and he couldn’t fucking protect her then either.

She blinks and before he notices her moving, she’s wrapping her arms around him and whispering against his neck, “it’s okay to feel the good things Mickey. Someday you’ll be able to feel them without the bad things creeping in,” fuck, her hugs feel like Mom’s, “and you know what?” she leans out to watch his eyes, her face only inches away from his, “I still love dandelions,” with a smile, wiping the tears off his cheeks that he didn’t know were there before burying her face in his shoulder again.

“Fuck dandelions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mandy. I will always love Mandy and I will always long for better for her. 
> 
> I'm not going to dedicate a whole shit ton of time to repairing Chicago relationships. Skim the surface enough to know they're being repaired, some may remain works in progress. And as far as the Gallaghers are concerned - fuck 'em.


	51. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up a sleeping bear.

Shadows

 

“What the fuck?” jerking awake when Ian slides back into bed behind him. A film of sweat and rapid beating heart.

“Sorry. Got up to pee, didn’t mean to wake you,” hand on his back when he sits.

Rubbing his eyes vigorously, “I hate the fuckin’ city man.”

The noises are so much more intense than they ever used to be. Every car that drives down the street, every door that opens and closes, every siren in the distance. Every single instance of manmade noise is startling. Mickey’s been edgy since they got here. Blaming it on having to come face-to-face with Svetlana, but that’s come and gone. They dealt with each other’s presence with a shocking amount of maturity. She even spoke politely to him - as politely as she’s ever been capable of. And agreed to letting Yev stay another night here before they leave. It seems to Ian that they’ll be okay with each other as far as the kid is concerned. He can’t say he’ll ever look at her with any amount of respect, knowing what he does about Mickey’s problems with the Russians behind bars. Which she can’t be held one hundred percent accountable for, he could have said no, but Ian’s certain she must have intimidated him somehow. Probably threatened him with never seeing the kid again. And then of course she never brought the kid by after the shit hit the fan anyway. Fucking bitch. 

But if it’s for the sake of Yev, then it’s worth it to be polite. 

He lies back to watch Mickey rubbing his hand over his face, admiring the definition of every single muscle on his body. Ian’s hand unconsciously rubbing small circles on his lower back. 

Mandy made the offer for them to stay with her, back when Ian first got in touch with her a few months ago. So of course he took her up on it. There’s more room than at the Gallagher house, it’s quieter, it’s outside of their old neighborhood. And for the sake of Mickey, he’d be more comfortable here with his sister than he would be in the mess and noise of Ian’s childhood home. At this point, Ian is certain he’d be losing his mind if they’d stayed there. 

Ian is proud of Mandy. She’s got a good thing going here. Her house is gorgeous, she loves her job, her fiancee is perfect for her but she doesn’t need him to keep a roof over her head, she’s doing that on her own. She needs him to make her happy, to make her complete, to make her smile that real smile that he’s been seeing since they got here. The one where she forgets to be self-conscious.

He’s not surprised. If anyone was going to make it out of the Southside by pulling themselves up by their own damn bootstraps, it’d be Mickey and Mandy. 

Turns out Joey is in jail on drug charges. Colin is living with Terry in the Milkovich house of horrors. Iggy got all hot and heavy with some chick and moved to Colorado, no one’s heard from him since. 

And the Gallaghers, well they’re still the Gallaghers. And Ian is absolutely certain that he’d never keep his shit together under that roof. He’ll always love them and want to look out for them, but he’s got to look out for himself first at this point. His stability is not only pertinent to him, but also to Mickey and every single patient he comes in contact with at Doc’s clinic. While his stability might never be possible without Mickey, it is possible without his siblings. 

“Fuck,” sighing heavily, “now I remember why I drank so damn much living here.”

“What are the nightmares about?”

“Nightmares? I ain’t a little kid,” wincing at the hostility in his own voice and back-pedaling, “I don’t even know. Just like little flashes of things.”

“Real things? Rising memories or…”

“I don’t know,” his voice shakes with annoyance, taking a deep breath that cuts off, “fuck,” reaching for his pants off the floor, “go back to bed, you need some sleep Gallagher,” turning to grasp Ian’s chin, “I’m fine. I’m going to get some air.”

“No, I’ll come with you.”

“No,” tapping his cheek now, that set of authority in his mouth, “just get some sleep. I’ll be back soon enough.”

“Where you going?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll be back in an hour,” being without cell phones in Mexico is no big deal. It’s been nice to be without technology barging in on every conversation, without the distractions of TVs and social media. But here, it’s been hard not to worry when Ian can’t just call Mickey to see where he is. And as high-strung as he’s been since they got here, it’s hard not to worry about him in general. He hates this. Next time they come back to Chicago it’ll be for no more than a long weekend. Two weeks is way too long. 

“Okay. Just be careful.”

He scoffs a little as he tugs a t-shirt over his head, leaning down to plant a kiss on Ian’s lips, “I love you too tough guy,” before he’s out the door of the guest bedroom.

Ian listens as his footsteps land on every single bare wooden step in the old house. Wanting to get up and follow. Wanting to shadow him in the darkness, making sure no one else is. Fuck, sometimes giving him space it too fucking hard. As he sits up on the edge of the bed he hears a second set of footsteps in the hallway, peering through the crack in the open doorway he makes out Lou’s form in the dimly lit hall. 

Well apparently Mickey’s got a shadow already. One that is perfectly capable of remaining a shadow, one that won’t make itself known unless needed. Smiling to himself at the image of Lou stalking Mickey through the midnight streets of Chicago. Of course she would. And of course she’d not be sleeping in this noise either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sleeping bear... what? What does this mean? Keep reading - you'll love it.


	52. It's Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skadi_Skagskard as per request from Tell Me About Mexico...
> 
> And all Mickey fans - you're welcome.

It’s Too Late

 

The night is damp. Cool. Shrugging deeper into his sweatshirt, knowing his tail must be fuckin’ freezing her ass off in those worn-out shorts. At least this tail is quiet. Won’t make herself known to anyone else until he needs her. And he’s pretty certain he’ll need her.   
He’s walked these streets a million times. This time. This time it’s different. 

Pausing at the base of the stairs. Letting it all crash through his mind in flashes. The same flashes he’s been seeing every single night since he set foot back in this dreary fuckin’ city. 

Happy is for children. If this is what happens to fag-lovers what do ya think happens to faggots? She’s ‘onna fuck the faggot outta you kid. Ride him until he likes it. 

Over and over and over. The sight of her blood, the sound of her skull cracking, her choked cries. Over and over and over. The feel of his fist connecting hard and fast with Mickey’s mouth. The pistol, the steel smashing his face, making his ears ring and his vision blur. Over and over and over. The sound of his drunken footsteps in the hall. Mandy’s squeaky bedroom door hinge. The headboard hitting the wall. She stayed silent. For all the times he heard her banging the hell out of her boyfriends, she never made a sound. Her shaky hands and unshed tears clinging to her eyes but never spilling over. Over and over and over. 

The gutted, charred remains of the couch he burned. Still over there under the L. Rusted springs. His mother’s afghan lighting up in blues, yellows, oranges, whites, and reds. His mother’s afghan in his grip that morning. Then under him, against his shoulders as she tugged his boxers down. Standing there in front of him taking her dress off, ready to fuck the faggot out of him. 

His eyes close, fingers rising to rub vigorously. In the spots colliding, in the black blanket of his lids is a crow. A blue-eyed crow. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Watching him.

Eyes open. Feeling the brick heavy in his right hand. The one he used to prop the door open with when Mandy was riding her bike, the days that were too cold to just sit on the porch to watch. The days he didn’t want to be outside. But he needed to be able to hear her, and if he left the door all the way open, man, the ass-beating he’d receive for letting heat out. 

Backing up, tapping his finger on the brick. FUCK U-UP. 

‘I’m ‘onna fuck you up you little runt’. 

Leaning back and huffing the brick. Glass shattering. It feels so good. It feels like breathing. Like he’s been holding this breath since he was five years old, since his face was ground into the broken glass on the kitchen floor, “yo Terry,” calling him out, “hey old man, turns out after all these fuckin’ years I do wanna know what happens to faggots. If fag-lovers get their brains smashed in on the kitchen counter, then I wanna know what happens to faggots. I wanna know what happens if the whore can’t fuck the faggot out. I wanna know what happens if a fuckin’ Russian whore cannot ride a faggot until he likes it. I wanna know. I want you to show me.”

The door finally opens, Colin’s ugly mug peering out, “Mickey?”

“Yah. Terry in there?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Send him out. Now,” fists clenching at his sides. Feeling his spine straightening, shoulders held steady, strong.

“Thing is, if I send him out, he’s ‘onna fuck you up Mickey.”

“Fucking idiot Colin. Tell him his faggot son is here, and he’s ready to get fucked up,” he can feel his eyebrows raising at his dumbass brother. That dough-faced idiot, standing there staring at him like he’s grown another head.

“I thought you were in Mexico.”

“Don’t look like it, does it?” his fingers find his eyes again. Fuck, he forgot how fucking stupid his brothers are, “yo Terry. It’s your faggot son. Your queer son. Your pansy, nancy, ring raider, cock jockey, pillow biter, cock-suckin’, donut-munchin’ limp wrist faggot son! Daddy, I just want you to know,” with every word his voice rises. He’s certain ninety percent of the Southside can hear him, and he doesn’t give a fuck anymore, “I’m gettin’ married. I’m gettin’ married to a guy. Another guy. You hear that! I’m marrying a guy. So I can spend the rest of my life takin’ nine inches up my ass. You wanna know how much I love takin’ nine inches up the ass, huh? Almost as much as I love suckin’ his dick. Almost as much as I love the feel of his cum in the back of my throat. Almost as much as I love eating his asshole…”

He’s a blur of gray hair, ugly tattoos and a hideous snarl, “I’m ‘onna kill you,” a baseball bat in his hand, lunging towards Mickey, “you fucking faggot. No son of mine is a faggot.”

Baseball bat won’t do shit from ten feet away. Sliding in low at the last minute to send Terry crashing over his shoulder into the cement. Guess he’s the limp wrist bastard here, couldn’t grip that fuckin’ wooden rod to save his fuckin’ life. His lip is already bloody as he staggers to his feet.

“Come on old man. Thought you were ‘onna fuck me up,” making fists between them, rising to show the ink to his dad, “come on then, fuck me up,” staying light on his feet. Knowing from years of taking the bastard’s punches how hard they are, knowing he knows how to ring a fuckin’ bell. But this time, he’s not going to get a chance, “show me what happens to faggots.”

He spits, landing on the sidewalk between them.

“Whatcha waitin’ for? Want me to tell you how much I love rimming…”

Lunging again. This time he’s low. He might be the biggest piece of shit on the planet, but he’s well versed in street fighting. Mickey braces for the incoming shoulder to the gut. Taking the opportunity to land some dirty elbows to the back of his head. Letting him take him to the ground, knowing he’ll gain the control soon enough. To an outsider, it may look like a vulnerable position. But to a kid who grew up fighting, a man who is trained now; this ain’t a bad place to be. Letting the old man swing away. Connecting with nothing more than Mickey’s forearms blocking every single punch. Letting him exhaust himself. 

Doesn’t take long before he’s panting and grunting. And Mickey’s heart hasn’t even picked up speed yet. Breathing evenly, steadily. Keeping Lou’s voice in his head. Her constant reminders to breathe and think. 

Think through it. It’s not a physical game as much as a head game. Fight smart not angry. Angry gets you beat every time. You got this pretty boy.

He feels himself smirking. He’s already closed him in his guard. As soon as the old man gives an opening he reaches for his arm, cross grip as he slides his hips to the side, slamming Terry’s arm to the far side of his body against the cement. This is going to be too fucking easy. Locking him into a triangle, his head and left arm pinned, so easy to get an arm-bar. Too fucking easy. 

‘She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you kid’.

Snap. His arm giving to the pressure, the sound of tendons snapping, bones fracturing, muscles popping. It’s like fucking heaven on Earth right now as the old man cries in agony. 

‘Clean it up before your sister gets home’.

Taking his back while he’s writhing in pain. Choke hold. Teeth clenched, whisper hot against his ear, “I’m a faggot Dad. I’ll always be a faggot. And you’ll always be an ignorant piece of fuckin’ trash,” never hold a choke for more than eight seconds. Her voice is clear in the back of his mind. But he’s not listening to her. Even if they don’t tap, never hold a choke for more than eight seconds. 

He’s tapping on his arm. Tapping desperately. 

“Wanna know what happens to fag-bashers, huh?” tightening the hold. Hearing sirens nearing, the blue and red lights starting to dance in his peripheral. 

“Let it go.”

‘Ride him until he likes it’.

“Let it go.”

‘Clean it up before your sister gets home’.

“Come back pretty boy.”

‘Happy is for children’.

“Come back here right now,” her breath is on his neck, it’s her hand tapping desperately on his arm. Not his father’s hand. His father is dead weight in his hold, “get the fuck back here pretty boy. You got kids, love. Kids who need you. Let it go.”

He blinks, a blue-eyed crow standing on the broken bones of the old burned out couch. Releasing, leaning back into her body behind him with a gasp. His body is burning with rage, boiling though his veins, shaking through his every muscle, scorching his bones until he breathes, he breathes and he catches the scent of desert sun and dirt on her arms that are wrapped around his chest. Hands flat on his heart, “welcome back. Now get the fuck out of here. Now.”

“No. No way,” choking on the breath lodged in his throat, Terry’s limp body sprawled half in his lap, half on the damp ground.

“Yes. Now. You got kids. You got a lover. I got nothin’. Get the fuck up and run.”

“I’m tired of fuckin’ runnin’.”

She’s to her feet quickly, grabbing for his armpits in attempt to drag him to his feet, “get the fuck up! Right now!”

He’s gotta give the bitch credit, he’s giving her nothing but dead weight and she’s got him practically to his feet. But her voice is getting shaky and her head is no longer in the game, “go now! Go!”

It’s too late. The berries and cherries are flashing, reflecting off the side of the house of horrors. Lighting Colin’s ugly mug in patterns of red and blue. Red and blue. He feels himself putting his hands on his head, dropping to his knees on the wet cement. Too late.

It’s too late. Ian will never understand. Rosa will never understand. Yevgeny will never understand. 

But the woman on her knees next to him, the one who keeps saying, “it was me. It was me,” as the cops are forcefully shouting out their demands for them to stay still, to keep their hands where they can see them; she understands. And he hates that she fucking understands, “it was me. I did it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better?
> 
> I'm better. Mostly. Wait, shit, did I just sacrifice Lou?


	53. Kneeling On The Sidewalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

Kneeling On The Sidewalk

 

“It was me,” her fingers are laced together on the back of her head, “I did it,” insisting towards the slumped body of Terry Milkovich.

“Then you deserve a medal,” Tony responds, stepping between her and the youngest Milkovich boy. Reaching down to feel for a pulse, still there. That makes things simpler, “bastard’s still breathing,” announcing to his partner, “cuff him anyway. Haul him in. Maybe this time we can get something to stick.”

Tony grew up in this neighborhood. Hiding his true sexuality for the entirety of his youth. Not only because of shitheads like Terry Milkovich, but that was part of it. He’d seen him beat a guy nearly to death once just for wearing a pink shirt. That wasn’t the whole of it, Tony’s traditionally religious family would never accept him if they knew he was queer. And he thought he’d never be able to succeed in uniform as an openly gay man. Trying for years to convince himself that Fiona Gallagher was the picture of female glory. Southside attitude, the tenacity to protect her siblings. But his attraction to her was purely out of respect, not lust or passion, or sex. It took having sex with her to come to terms with that. 

Both of them are still. Kneeling, hands behind their heads, waiting for cuffs or pat-downs. They’re both silent. Which is strange as hell for Mickey Milkovich to be silent. 

“So Mikhailo,” stopping in front of him, watching as his eyes reflecting the red and blue lights scan up to his own, “why aren’t you on my watch list anymore? Escaping prison, after only a year of a ten year sentence. Then you just drop off the planet for a couple years. And now you appear nowhere on the wanted list. But here’s the weirdest part, I look you up in the system and it turns out you don’t even have a record from juvie anymore. Now isn’t that weird? Last I heard the only Milkovich without a record was your sister.”

“Yeah well…”

“I’m not done.”

Biting his tongue, Tony barely knows him, has never spoken one-on-one with him, only brushes with him have been on opposite sides of the law and never ending well; but even Tony knows he hates being interrupted.

“So when I saw you the other day just walking down the street like you weren’t running from the law, I thought I’d look into it. Dig a little and find out the FBI had something to do with your file. Dig a little and find out they also had something to do with Ian Gallagher’s file. So, what it comes down to is, I don’t really care. If you got into some cartel shit in Mexico then I don’t want to know a damn thing. The less I know the better. Since that’s the only thing I can imagine from a kid like you,” he shrugs, taking note of the cocky smirk rising on his upturned face, “but I also doubt you’re some kind of snitch. So maybe not. Either way, I roll up on this scene tonight. Your lady partner over there with a bloody nose claiming she’s the one who beat Terry into submission. She looks like she’s in good shape,” scanning her over, “maybe she knows some moves, probably has a blade or two on her. But,” watching her eyes, “she also looks like she wouldn’t fuck around, like she’d just slit his throat and be done with him. She also doesn’t look Southside, so unless she’s a contract killer I doubt she’d have issue with a piece of shit like your dad. You, on the other hand,” neither one of them is giving a single hint in expression, “queer son of a fag-basher. That’s enough reason. Honestly Milkovich, I hate your dad. I hate your dad and all his racist, sexist, homophobic, ignorant shithead friends. And all I saw when I rolled up to this scene was an unconscious piece of shit probation violator. As far as I’m concerned by the time I got here the perpetrator was already long gone. And as far as my partner’s concerned, he’s got enough paperwork to fill out tonight,” hand clamping down on Mickey’s shoulder as he steps between them once more. 

Leaving them kneeling on the sidewalk with their fingers laced behind their heads, faces slowly turning to stare at each other. He cuts the blue and red lights on the dash, watching in the yellow glow of the streetlight as relieved smiles rise on both of their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nah, I couldn't quite bring myself to sacrifice my queen. 
> 
> Anyone remember Tony the cop from way back when? Anyone else wanted more from him that just fucking Fiona, "turning" gay, and then disappearing? I did. So there's my more. I think I'm lining him up in my mind for later use in a different fic too.
> 
> I know, we already saw the gay cop letting the gay kid off the hook in the show, but this felt perfectly fine for me.


	54. Genetic Material

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Colin, you dough-faced idiot you. 
> 
> What actually happened the night of the big sleepover? Had to have been a game-changer, right?

Genetic Material

 

“It that true? What you said?”

Fuck. He forgot Colin’s dumbass was even there still, “what part?” he can’t help but laugh. Every single word was true. What his dumbass brother would be questioning though, that’s beyond him, “well it’s more like eight and half inches, but…”

Lou’s snicker beside him, he wants to strangle her for even trying to go down for his shit, but part of him knew that about her. 

“About getting married?”

“Yeah,” getting to his feet finally, dampness having seeped through the knees of his jeans, “got a problem with that?”

“No. Never did,” he half laughs, “just, um,” hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “just was, um, wondering…”

“Spit it out mumbles,” reaching for Lou’s hands to help her to her feet. 

“Can I come? I mean, to your wedding?”

He hears himself snort a laugh, waiting for Colin to call his own bluff, but he’s too fucking stupid to make a joke out of this anyway.  
“You remember that McEntire kid? That one that put dog shit in your hood that one time?”

“Yeah fuckhead, I remember. He didn’t even make it ten feet away from me before you were rubbing the shit in his face.”

Something resembling a smile rises on Colin’s face. Something Mickey hasn’t seen in so fucking long he wasn’t sure the guy knew how to produce that expression. That dumb fucker, he was never sure if he was born dumb or if all of Terry’s hits to the head just added up throughout the years. He was never good at protecting his head.

“I know where she’s buried.”

“Huh?”

“Mom. Dad made me help him bury her. I’m going to go down to the station tomorrow and tell them,” his eye contact falters, landing on the porch steps for a moment, “even if it’s past the limitations of whatever they…”

“Statute of limitations.”

“Yeah. That,” his eyes rise again, locking onto Mickey’s with that weird broken innocence that Mickey fuckin’ hates, “even if they just dig her up. I mean, maybe we can bury her in a real grave?”

Damn it, this idiot knew Mom for longer than Mickey did. He probably has more memories of her, if he has anything between his ears at all, “yeah. We could do that. You, uh, you want me to go with you? Tomorrow?”

“No,” a smile that looks more like a wince, “even if it’s true about your record being clean, I don’t think walking into a police station is, um, good. For you.”

“Probably right,” probably the first time he’s ever been right about anything.

“You wanna,” hand scratching the back of his head again, “you wanna grab a beer or somethin’?”

“Yeah, but not tonight. I gotta get back to someone. I’ll stop over tomorrow?”

“Okay,” a half nod while Mickey starts backing away. 

“Oh, Colin,” stopping mid-stride, “yeah. You can come, uh, to the wedding.”

Damn it, a fuckin’ smile rises. Teeth showing and everything, “okay Mickey. Sounds good.”

————

“How the fuck you get a bloody nose anyway?” nudging her with his elbow while she sparks a joint.

She exhales slowly, “a wimpy little head-butt when I was trying to get you off him.”

“Coudn’t’ve been that wimpy,” accepting the joint from her, “wait, how did you get this through security… no, no. I don’t want to know.”

Her eyebrows is arced wickedly and her smile is a tease, that fuckin’ galaxy and a million moons reflecting in the glow of the streetlight, “afraid you might turn straight if you smoke my pussy weed?”

“What? No, get the fuck away from me, you really?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? I ain’t gonna chance comin’ all the way to Chicago and just expect there’ll be a place to get the good shit.”  
“This is good shit,” he agrees, holding the inhale for as long as he can before noting, “pussy-laced or not.”

“Buen material genetico,” she winks, “which apparently came from your mom’s side, huh? And your brothers, they don’t favor your mom’s side.”

“Nah. They ain’t bad, not cruel like Terry. Just dumb.”

They fall into silence beside each other. The sound of their boots on the wet pavement. The heavy damp spring air. The smell of mud and green birth of nature. Calm. Calm is how he feels. Something he’s not certain he’s ever felt in this city, this neighborhood. 

————

“Van double Damme.”

Idiot. But he can’t stop looking at him. Sideways glances, just wanting to know this isn’t some dream. Like some bullshit story he made up, like some kind of fuckin’ happiness could exist in this house. Like the light, easiness around this grinning ginger idiot could somehow make the darkness and heaviness inside the walls of this house disappear. Right now, they are. There’s no one stumbling down the hall. There’s no one slurring homophobic rants. There’s no one talking about how women need to be taught with a heavy hand where their place is in this world. There’s no one rambling about the niggers taking over the street business. 

It’s just the two of them. And every time he looks at him, he’s still got that half-assed smile on his dopey face. Fuck, he kissed him the other day. It was fast and hard. Probably not what the nitwit was looking for. He probably wants some dumb make-out like in those stupid rom-com things Mandy watches. Like all the face touching and hair stroking. 

But that’s fag shit. And Mickey can’t be a fag. Not under this roof. Not on these streets.

This time when he looks to his left, the idiot is already looking at him. And the damn smile isn’t half smile anymore. It’s all smile. And Jesus fucking Christ if something inside of Mickey doesn’t spark to life like a fuckin’ click of a lighter. And fuck if he can stop it. Kid wants fag shit, he’ll get fag shit. His hand comes up from his lap, sliding across his cheek, a surprised look rises in those incredible green eyes. Stars beginning to swirl in a way that Mickey wants to watch every single moment of every single day for the rest of his stupid queer life. No, that’s too queer. Fuck, that’s way too queer. 

But fuck. He’s leaning in towards his face. The wave is surging from deep down inside his body. His lips are meeting Ian’s. His hand is sliding to the back of his head, fully realizing how fucking soft his hair is even this short stubby shit at the back of his head. Realizing he wishes it was longer, long enough to stroke through his fingers. The wave is rising and his lips are parting against Ian’s. He tastes like cigarettes and beer and it’s so fucking incredible. Mickey wants to taste every single surface of his tongue. His fingers are pressing into his skull, holding so tight like he’s afraid he’ll disappear against his contact. Fall apart under his hands and become nothing more than fine dust on the couch next to him.

The wave is cresting and he hears himself half-cry into Ian’s mouth. He’s not sure what the fuck it was and he’s hoping Ian didn’t hear it or feel it. But now Ian’s hands are sliding down his back, pulling his body closer gently. He hears his beer bottle hit the coffee table and feels himself move. Allowing Ian that pull, that pull that draws him into his fucking lap. He’s in Ian’s fucking lap. Jesus fucking Christ this is the gayest fucking thing and he needs to stop it. He needs to back away. He needs to make the lines clear. They’re just fucking. There’s nothing more happening here. There never will be. Because if it’s more than fucking, then it means Mickey is fucking gay. Mickey can’t be fucking gay. Not here. Not in this house. Not in this neighborhood. Not in this life. 

And if Ian wants more than fucking he can go back to the geriatric viagroid who slapped Mickey’s ass the other day when he was pulling the pellets out. And fuck if Mickey didn’t want to rip his fucking balls off right then and shove them down his throat. Fuckin’ sick fuckin’ faggot chasin’ after a fucking teenager. Fuck him. And fuck that. This is his Ian. This is Mickey’s mouth to kiss. His tongue to feel dragging over his bottom lip. His lip to suck into his mouth gently. This is his Ian. This isn’t queer. This is a one time thing. This is a one and only. That’s all it ever will be. And as long as Terry doesn’t find out, then it’s okay. It’s okay for this Ian to be his. It’s okay for Ian to be up against his lips. It’s okay for his hands to be on Mickey’s back, slowly sliding under his shirt. Mickey feels his breath hitch against Ian’s as his fingers slide under the edge of his jeans. And Ian backs off. 

This is fucking, after all, this isn’t foreplay. This is making out for what? For the sake of showing the idiot he doesn’t need some stupid old dude to give him the things he wants. He can get his fuckin’ kisses here and he can order his own damn room service when he gets the fuck out of the Southside. And maybe that two hundred dollars rolled up in a sock, every bill saved one by one, maybe that’ll be enough to get a cheap fuckin’ room somewhere and order some fuckin’ delivery or somethin’. Close enough, isn’t it?   
He hears another one of those weird fuckin’ cry things come out of his mouth. What the fuck is that? And Ian’s hand slides up his back, meeting the back of his neck as his mouth draws back. And what the fuck is this? Now he’s leaning his head back on the couch, just looking at Mickey’s face. And this isn’t just fucking. Is it? 

He’s fucking smiling. And the wave is crashing. Bursting, exploding against the sandcastle shell that Mickey built around himself. Tearing it down that quickly and that easily. And now Mickey is getting to his feet with a throbbing hard dick and a deep ache in his body, a need to be filled by that ginger idiot who’s grinning now as Mickey cocks his head towards his bedroom. 

And on the other side of that closed bedroom door, he is a faggot. And he’s pressing into Ian’s body as soon as the door is closed. And he’s crashing into his lips again and it feels so fucking right. And so fucking good. That when he feels Ian’s hands grasping and lifting the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t stop him. And when he turns on the damn lamp, he doesn’t stop him. And when he leans Mickey back against his bed and kisses down his chest and stomach, he doesn’t stop him. When his dick is in Ian’s mouth and Ian’s fingers are slick with lube and sliding inside his body he doesn’t stop him. And he doesn’t stop the breathy moan from exiting his lips. Doesn’t stop his eyes from plastering themselves shut. He doesn’t stop himself from enjoying this. Because if enjoying this, if letting himself feel every single thing Ian is doing, makes him a faggot then that’s exactly what he is. 

And right now, as Ian is leaning over him, making himself comfortable between Mickey’s legs and smiling at him. Right now, he just doesn’t fucking care anymore. 

————

He sits gently on the edge of the guest bed. Laying a hand on Ian’s forehead, sliding it back through his hair. He doesn’t stir. Sound asleep. But Mickey knows he feels his presence there anyway. It’s been more than an hour, but it doesn’t seem to have effected his ability to fall asleep. He smiles, leaning down to kiss his forehead before quietly backing out of the room. Too wired to sleep just yet, the bottle of tequila Lou bought from the corner store on the walk home needs to be polished off and he’s ready to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Ian saying Mickey was in love with him way back then, I'm pretty sure there were some tender moments at some point between them. I know I'm not the only one who thought that night took things to a deeper level physically. I always thought Mickey was crazy about Ian from the jump - just the fact that he was willing to chance anything physical with him at any point even if it was hidden away, made me think he was in it for more than just a fuck.


	55. Three For A Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Putting Mama to rest.

Three For A Funeral

 

A warm, damp spring breeze whips up a tornado of pink blossoms from the flowering crab tree behind the gravestone. Everyone else has filtered out. Back to the Alibi for a few drinks. But Mickey is still standing there. 

It was beautiful. As beautiful as a death ceremony can be. Every single one of her children here and sharing stories. Joey was flanked by a prison guard, but he got to attend the funeral. As the oldest, he probably has the most memories of her, he was mostly silent. The day he remembered was a Christmas, the only Christmas in the Milkovich house with presents. Mickey was a baby, Mandy not born yet. He remembered it because every single present was handmade by Nadiya. The sweaters she had knit for the boys were horrible. They were too snug and they were scratchy. And she made them put the sweaters on and stand under the tree, holding baby Mickey swaddled in his scratchy blanket while he screamed his head off; so she could take a picture. The smile then fell from his face and his words carried away on the breeze. Most likely something that Terry found a way to destroy, so he won’t go there. Not today. 

They extended their visit by a week to stay for this. Iggy and his girlfriend managed to get here in time. She’s strangely attractive for someone like Iggy. Ian never minded him, he never seemed to give a shit about Mickey’s live-in boyfriend situation while remaining married to a woman. He never seemed to have a care one way or another about anything really, other than when the next meal would be consumed. And Svetlana’s tits. He cared a lot about Svetlana’s tits. 

When her body was unearthed it was clear the cause of death being blunt force trauma to the skull, with sworn statement from two of his children and his brother (who most likely cut a deal of some sort in exchange for his statement), no statute of limitations for murder in the state of Illinois; it’s likely Terry’s breathed his last breath of air as a free man. Leave it to Mickey to stand outside the house shouting about how much he loves swallowing cum, eating ass, and taking nine inches. 

Ian wandered over to Monica’s grave. Gave Mickey some space to be alone with his mother. Well not fully alone since Lou is sitting on top of a mausoleum smoking a joint, like a gargoyle sitting there keeping order over the chaos. She’s clad in her nasty old boots and a dress suit of Mandy’s. And she looks so fucking out of place in this city, but somehow fits in perfectly at the same time. Mickey didn’t retell the story of the beatdown he handed his father, Ian heard it from Lou. But Mickey did impart the knowledge that the only reason the old man is still breathing is because of Lou breaking his choke hold. He’s glad she was there, Ian likes to think if Mickey ended up behind bars again that this time would different. That he’d be able to commit and truly wait. But he has no desire to find out. 

He hasn’t been here since they dug her up. Cringing thinking of that night, “sorry Mom,” reaching out to touch her headstone. Trace her first name. Monica. Hurricane Monica. Smiling to himself, allowing himself to remember some of the happy things she gave them. Some of the smiles and laughter. Some of the moments that will always live in his mind behind the hurricane that was his mother. 

‘There’s always going to be people that are going to try and fix us and you can never make those people happy. Like it breaks their heart just to look at you. You need to be with people who accept you for who you are. You should never apologize for being you.’  
How wrong she was. Ian wasn’t broken. Mickey never thought that. His siblings never thought that. Ian had an uncontrolled disorder that was making decisions for him. Decisions that hurt him, and hurt the people around him. Owning up to it, apologizing for the hurts he caused, those were things that needed to be done. 

His siblings only had Monica. Monica who was never medicated. Who was always touching down in their lives just long enough to make everything seem okay, to make everyone rely on her and love her. To make everyone think she was going to stay. That this would be the time she’d stay. And then she was gone.

Ian is not Monica.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve talked Mom. I, um, I guess I miss you, I mean in the same way I did when you were still alive,” he shrugs, feeling the stiffness of his dress-shirt rubbing on the new ink on his shoulder-blade, “I live in Mexico now. In the desert. I, um, I did some, well, crazy things last time I was manic. Had some religious delusions and…” his voice trails off. There are still some apologies he needs to make to the people he hurt then, “I’m with Mickey now. Again. Where I always should have been. With the one person who has always accepted me for who I am,” he half smiles, “I’m working on apologizing for the things I did that hurt the people around me, you know, when I was too high to feel any pain myself. When everything was so bright and throbbing with life, when everything was moving so quickly and so beautifully that I couldn’t even imagine there being any existence of pain.”

He watches his finger tracing the letters on the headstone, “you were loved Monica. You were loved for who you were. We didn’t want to fix you. We just wanted you to stay,” he feels his fact twist, forcing a deep breath as tears sting the backs of his eyes. Blinking hard at the light blue spring sky, “that was all we wanted. We didn’t want you to apologize for being you, we just wanted you to love us. Love us enough to stay,” his hand rises to wipe at the moisture on his cheeks, “you know what? I do forgive you. For all of it,” shrugging while his eyes scan over the lettering again. 

“I wish you could have experienced this. This life. Through clear vision. Not living for the moments between mania and depression, rather living in those moments. Spending your life in that space where the pain is manageable and the happiness is real. Where the smiles of my patients make me higher than any mania could, and the touch of the man I love paints a more beautiful picture in my eyelids than any delusion ever could.”

Reaching out to wipe the dust of winter off the top of the headstone with a smile, “I know it’s a long road. And I know it’s an every single day battle. But I’ve got the support now that maybe you never had. I’ve got the love of an amazing man. I’ve got a second family that loves and accepts me, who know me as me instead of you. I’ll always be a part of the Gallagher fabric, I’ll never stop being a part of my siblings lives, I won’t do that to them. I’ll just be a phone call away now instead of down the hall. Which I guess is still a hell of a lot closer than you or Frank ever were. I hope that wherever you are now, I hope you’re in peace. Truly,” wiping the last tear off his cheek as he hears Mickey approaching behind him, “bye Mom.”

“Ready to go tough guy?” hand clenching down on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” turning to lean into his forehead, “you?”

“Yeah,” hand rising, sliding across his cheek, through his hair, resting on the back of his neck. 

He takes a moment like this. Right here. To breathe deep. To inhale the scent of Mickey over the scent of a Chicago spring, over the sweet scent of blooms, the damp earthiness of freshly turned dirt. Taking a moment to ingest Mickey, let him invade every single corner of his mind. 

Leaning to his lips. For something sweet and tender. Something life-affirming and earth-shattering. Just a moment. 

Sliding an arm over his strong shoulders and steering towards the road. Feeling Mickey’s arm, safe and reassuring resting around his waist. Falling into stride together, the place they’ve always belonged. Right there next to each other. The place they’ve spent their lives whether physically or not, knowingly or not. Always connected at a level that can never die, can never disappear, can never be filled by another soul. 

He feels Mickey’s face turn into his chest for just a moment, probably wiping some snot on his dress shirt. Oh well, that’s what washing machines are for. Feeling a grin breaking out on his face while Mickey whistles. Like he’s calling for a dog, “let’s go bitch,” hollering towards the leggy smoke-cloud sitting on a tomb. 

“Am I your fuckin’ dog now?” sliding across the roof of the mausoleum. Disappearing over the far side of the structure as a group of crow rises into the air, startling up and away from the woman who just disturbed their gathering. Ian hears Mickey’s breath catch in his throat, feels his grip tightening around him as Lou’s voice recites, “one for sorrow, two for mirth. Three for a funeral, four for birth. Five for heaven, six for hell. Seven for the devil, his own self.”

“The myth, the magic, the mystery,” he hears a smile in Mickey’s voice. 

“They mate for life, ya know?”

“Didn’t know that,” his grip on Ian’s waist is getting nearly painful it’s so tight.

“Now you do,” she winks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or putting both Mamas to rest. I think some closure between Ian and Monica was also appropriate. I don't hold any of the stuff between them against her or him, I just wish we had been able to see a Monica that was stable, but I suppose that was the whole point of her character.


	56. It Just Ain't So Bad After All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss in the club. And yes, crows do mate for life.

It Just Ain’t So Bad After All

 

The music is fuckin’ irritating and the lights are fuckin’ irritating and if one more fat old faggot touches Ian he’s going to get a serious fuckin’ beat down. And there it is. Another fat old fuck, “those fingers go anywhere near that cock…”

Fuck, this place makes him fucking crawly. All these old queens touching on young boys. All these young boys letting themselves be touched for what? A few dollars? Fuck, Ian. Peering at him with a little smirk on his face. That stupid make-up around his eyes, but fuck it makes his fuckin’ eyes that much harder to look away from. Fuck. Fuck it. 

The kiss is passion. The kiss makes the music din. The lights dim. It makes the voices of all these fuckin’ idiots in here shush. It makes the walls crumble, the floor shatter. It breaks every single last layer of resistance inside of Mickey’s body as he lets Ian pull him closer. Tight against that rock hard body wearing barely a thing. Right hand on his head, sliding through his hair, catching his breath in the back of his throat as Ian’s tongue travels the length of his lower lip. Meeting it with his own as his left hand lands on Ian’s ribs. Bare and glazed in sweat beneath his fingers. 

His legs are turning into fucking jello under him, all the blood in his body rushing to one fucking place. Lightheaded, groping for Ian’s body to keep himself here. Here, on the ground, in Ian’s arms. Against Ian’s body. Against Ian’s lips. Ian’s hands on his head and on the small of his back, keeping him so close. So fucking close there’s no room for air. 

One of those stupid cry gasp moan things happens into Ian’s mouth and he backs off on the pressure. Leaning forehead to forehead as they breathe against each other’s open mouths. Too late to back all the way off, a half-hard cock in a pair of tiny gold shorts hidden between them. His hands slide through Mickey’s hair, tilting his face back to watch him with a content smile on his wet lips. Dopey idiot. Lookin’ at Mickey like kissing him is the most enjoyable thing on this fuckin’ planet. 

Fuckin’ idiot, “c’mere,” half nod as his lips come crashing back into Mickey’s. 

————

There were five of them. Five fuckin’ crows that took flight when Lou landed. Soaring up from behind the mausoleum and scattering into the spring breeze. There were five. And if that stupid rhyme is right, then it’s heaven. Five for heaven. 

He feels Ian’s body in tight against his side. He’s warm and pliable, like he always fucking is when Mickey needs something to grip that won’t leave him. The big dummy got his tattoo the other day. His crow. Mickey will probably never admit it in so many words but he loves that stupid tattoo. And he loves the stupid reason behind it. 

And he loves what Lou just said. About crows mating for life. 

Looking over at Ian who is smiling knowingly down at Mickey. As if he didn’t fuckin’ know that already. 

“Fuck,” cursing himself out for getting this fuckin’ involved with weird signs of nature and stupid symbols of love and idiotic interpretations of dreams and, “c’mere,” half nod giving the go ahead to do the thing he wanted to do as soon as Lou said that crows mate for life. 

And this life. Well, this life, it just ain’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe just one more reason I chose the crow for the guiding factor from nature.


	57. Two Black Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little jump in time...

Two Black Birds

 

It’s hot. It’s dry. It’s a weird place for a gathering of Southside trash. But, as Mandy scans down both rows of chairs, not a single person here looks like Southside trash. 

Smiling as her husband places his hand on her thigh. Laying hers overtop with a squeeze while she readjusts her focus to the archway of flowers. The long-legged short-haired woman standing there with an amused smile on her face. Mandy follows her line of vision to the back of the aisle. Her niece and nephew walking out the door of the main house. Hand in hand. They’re the keepers of the rings. They stop at edge of each row of chairs, offering a tungsten carbide ring with a fire red inlay to the side containing Mickey’s family. Offering a tungsten carbide ring with an ocean blue inlay to the Gallagher side while Lou announces, “our grooms will exchange these rings later as a symbol of their never-ending love for one another. We ask that you, as family and friends, warm these rings with silent wishes of love and support during the ceremony. The love and support you’d like to provide for them throughout their lives together.”

Mandy’s hand is shaking as she reaches for the ring. 

“Don’t drop it,” Yev grins at her.

“Little shit,” she snorts back at him as his eyebrows rise in a taunt that she’ll never forget form her childhood. 

She never thought she’d see this day. Back in high school when her brother was marrying just some whore he knocked up. Like she ever believed that about him. Sure, Mickey was always banging whatever slut in his grade that all the other guys were banging, and he spent a lot of time at Angie Zago’s. But he wasn’t the type for a whore. That never fit. It was Ian, of course, who finally told her the real story. Fuck Terry. 

Fingers sliding over the ring in her palm. Too much to say, too much to wish for, too much to hope for. The only thing that truly matters is the one thing that was never denied between the two of them. Love. Love, pure and blind. Complicated and easy. Disastrous and restorative. Painful and beautiful. From that very first moment she saw it on her brother’s face, the very first time she heard it in his voice, ‘don’t’. That was a different life. Dark, dreary, terrifying. 

She blinks away the tears rising in her eyes, looking around this place. This place that is light and sunny. The air is clean, the night stars are bright. There’s a happiness and warmth that exists on this little spot of land around them. A home that is welcoming and open. A home full of kindness and guidance. Support and love. Just like Lou said. 

Her thumb wipes across the fire red inlay, the memory of Mickey’s distress over Fiona’s words. Right there standing outside the doorway with his thumbnail in his teeth, that desperation to keep Ian with him, to keep him safe and protected when the world around them was so fucking tumultuous there was no way they’d both stay afloat no matter how hard Mickey fought against that current. 

Always fighting against the current. Turning her head now to watch him exit the house. He doesn’t look like he’s fighting anymore. He looks like he’s floating. Hands entwined at their sides as they walk. Smiles so fucking bright, brighter than the sun, even at mid afternoon in the middle of a desert. She hasn’t figured out yet how either of them stand this heat, but the sunshine looks good on them. Happiness looks good on them.

Rising to her feet with the rest of the family. Her idiot brothers. Except Joey. He’s got two years left in his sentence. He’ll probably do something immediately to get locked back up, he’s not very well acquainted with adult life on the outside. The times she has visited him, he seems more at home in prison than he ever did as a free man. Well, the odds never really were in their favor. One of them was bound to end up behind bars for life, one bound for addiction, one bound for a life of hitting. 

Lou’s professionalism from earlier is already starting to fade while a smirk rises on her face, appraising them both from head to toe as they come to a halt in front of her, “alright. Let’s get this shit goin’.”

Mickey gives her a death glare and Ian laughs that same childish giggle he’s always had. 

“Well we’re gathered here today because these two idiots think makin’ it legal is better than livin’ in sin I guess. Anybody got a problem with that?” her sparkly blue eyes scanning the crowd. Mandy can’t stifle a laugh, this is exactly the wedding ceremony they both would feel most comfortable with. She’s still not really sure how fate put this place and this new family at their feet, but she’s glad it did. 

“No? Good. Saves me a bullet.”

Everything she says receives snickers from the crowd, eye rolls from Mickey and grins from Ian. They clearly didn’t practice this. 

“Well since you’ve already been united as one in your hearts, souls, and bedsheets; this is just a public commitment between you to be nurturing, faithful, open, and trusting. For the rest of your fuckin’ lives. How’s that sound?”

Her eyebrows are playing a little game of truth or dare with Mickey’s, “good,” he finally responds. 

“What about you el gingero?” turning to Ian now, “sound like somethin’ you can do?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, squeezing Mickey’s hand.

“Easy enough. I don’t have to ask if you’ll love each other for the rest of your lives. We all already know you will,” something resembling a real smile is starting to rise on her lips and in her eyes, “rings,” motioning towards the kids with her head. The one on the Gallagher side has already made it’s way down the row, ending in Kev and V. 

And the one on their side is, still right here in Mandy’s hand. Yev shoots her a dirty look, “sorry,” she whispers, hurriedly passing it to her husband.

Lou scoffs at her but recovers enough words to keep the ceremony moving, “the sun, the moon, the embrace. All circles. The eyes you’ll look into each morning and each night. Your love for one another. All circles. No beginning, never ending. You’ll wear them to remember where you’ve been, know where you are, and know that no matter where you’re going it’ll be together. You wanna know what I think?”

“No,” they both answer immediately.

She shrugs, “you get to anyway. Blame your sister for the hold-up,” she winks Mandy’s way and her eyes look like the surface of Lake Michigan at dawn, “I think everyone here can mostly agree. You two make me believe things I never thought I’d believe. The way you look at each other makes me believe that love is real, it’s true, it exists, it’s never been a lie. You make me believe that not everything has to be right in this world, as long as the world is right when you’re in the arms of the person you love. You two make me believe that love is enough. It’s enough to overcome all the shit life can throw at you. It makes me think you can love someone enough to put yourself last, throw yourself in a fire for them and somehow manage to come out scorched to the bone, turn around and do it again. And it makes me think that those two damn crows that have been sittin’ on the roof all day are actually here for you and not just sittin’ there out of chance. Two for joy, huh?” tears are welling up in her eyes and she half-laughs, “or the desert melting my brain. Let’s exchange these rings, kiss each other as husbands and get to the fun part of this hell. They’ve been there all day, by the way,” gaze lingering on Mickey for a long moment as a grin breaks across her face at the sight of the awestruck wonder in Mickey’s eyes while he stares at the two black birds watching the ceremony from their perch. 

————

The day has faded into night. The gathering of Southside trash has grown back into the usual loud, fucked-up, drunken bunch of idiots. But it’s okay, everyone’s smiling. She watched Mickey’s shoulders disappear into the main house with both kids in tow about a half hour ago. When he reappeared, he snuck around the edge of the group and off into the edge of the yard. Just taking a moment to himself. To watch the joy from afar. 

Mandy lets him have a few quiet moments before she makes her way to him. Sitting beside him in the dirt. Close enough to lean against his shoulder. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. That this isn’t his. This can’t be his. All the happiness the world can contain right here in front of him, he doesn’t deserve it and somehow if it truly does exist and truly does belong to him that it’ll disappear in the blink of an eye. 

They never had the typical sibling relationship. They had the one they needed, the one that was necessary for survival. Always holding on so tight, but never quite tight enough, knowing that when things were good they’d always get bad soon enough. Never allowing hope a way in until it was too fucking late and it left you alone with nothing but an aching chest, knowing the only way out of it was to pick your damn self up and dust your damn self off because no one else would do it for you. It took Mandy a lot of years to figure out that she was worth more than what was between her legs. It took her a lot of time to understand that she was lovable. That she didn’t need to rely on a man to get her out of her shithole life. Hell, she didn’t even need one in order to be happy if she didn’t want one. Batteries and silicone were just fine in that department. 

Companionship. The physical and emotional room to grow, the space where no one is pushing or hitting or yelling. The space where she can lay her head at night, look to her right and know he’s there if she wants to talk and he’s there if she doesn’t. She doesn’t consider herself lucky for meeting Jason when she did, she was already committed to making her own way in this world. He just happened to be the icing on the cake that she had already baked from scratch all by herself. 

She finds herself doing something that maybe she’s never in her life done, if she has she can’t remember, sliding her fingers into the hand of her brother’s. His hand is warm, rough, dry and squeezing down on hers with the exact amount of there-for-you he’s always been. The years between leaving with Kenyatta and seeing Mickey again in the airport have long been forgotten between them. Mickey was still a kid, Mandy was still a kid when she took off with the piece of shit. He couldn’t have stopped her even though she knew she was walking into a trash heap with that abusive fucker. And Mickey already had so much on his damn plate already. Mandy felt like she was suffocating back then. Like she was stuck in quicksand and it was slowly making it’s way into her mouth. At that point in her life, anywhere was better, even if it meant an abusive man and a ticket to Fucksville, USA. 

She leans her temple down on her brother’s shoulder, taking a deep breath of the scent of him. Familiar still from all those years ago spent huddled under Mom’s blanket together in the cold of winter nights, listening as Terry’s drunken footsteps stumbled their way down the hall and out the door for the bar. She remembers putting her hand on his shoulder telling him, ‘it’s manic depression’, when he was already a camel with a broken back and this was just one more straw being added to the pile. 

‘Don’t fuckin’ tell me what’s impossible’. 

Impossible. She smiles to herself, letting her head fall deeper into his warmth. Surprised he hasn’t shrugged her off yet. The limits of his affection, even when she was little, were those little taps. Rarely even an open palmed rub across a shoulder blade. Just a little tap, almost a swat, or a thump on her back when she’d be crying over a scraped knee. That shithead Greeley kid that used to pull her hair in first grade, Mickey saw him do it once and smashed his face into the desk so hard his nose bled. How many others throughout the years had he chased off with a baseball bat, or a pipe, or even a busted off broom handle once. He was always little for his age, but he never let that stop him from taking on some of the biggest shitheads in the Southside. 

“Can I come back sometime during fight season?”

“Come back whenever you want,” his voice is a quiet rumble in his chest and his face turns quickly to press lips into the top of her head. 

“I will,” promising, listening to the tiny hitch in his breath. Always so afraid to let himself love and accept the love given in return.  
Removing herself from his comfort for just a moment, reaching for his chin to force his eye contact. They both have their mom’s eyes, but there’s always been something so fucking hard to look at in his, like part of her is still living right there around his pupil, part of her is always looking right back at Mandy when she speaks to him, “you deserve this Mick,” watching instant welling of tears in those eyes, “you deserve the happiness and the love. The home, the freedom. You deserve this. I hope you know that.”

Already knowing he won’t nod, or vocally agree, but as she reaches for a tear trailing down his cheek, he reaches for hers. Smudging it out between his fingers like it’s a tiny flame he has to put out before it can turn into a wildfire. Seeing her opening, and taking it, burying her face in his neck, molding herself to his side now. Now while she has the chance. Wanting to say so much more, wanting to apologize for leaving when he probably needed her the most, wanting to apologize for not knowing all the shit that went down with Svetlana at the time. Wanting to go back in time and kick herself for being upset with him when he wanted nothing to do with that baby, when he didn’t want to be there when it was born. Wanting to go back in time the day after Terry pistol whipped him, go back in time and fucking hug him. Just wrap her arms around him and hold him. Instead of just shrugging it all off as something he deserved, like it’s ever okay for a father to pistol whip his son. But when was anything Terry did to his children justified?

And if she apologizes, he’ll only apologize. And none of that shit was his fault either. So she stays silent and she stays next to him. She’s heard her and Mickey both described in a lot of ways, a lot of Milkovich anger, Milkovich temper, Milkovich attitude. But the part of them that clawed, fought, and killed for survival; the part of them that did manage to survive all the shit thrown at them, shoved in their throats and crammed in their faces; that part came from Mom. Survival. 

When he sighs, lifting their entwined hands to press lightly against his lips she hears a crow caw from over the roof of their little home. She can’t help but snort out a laugh, “this place really does make a person lose their mind.”

“Yah,” he agrees immediately, listening as footsteps approach in the dirt. 

“Hate to interrupt sibling bonding time,” Ian sighs with that silly grin he’s always worn, “but I kind of want to dance with my husband before the night is over.”

“Fuck you firecrotch. I told ya already, ain’t happenin’.”

“Come on,” hand out, palm open, waiting, “everyone is drunk anyway. You don’t even have to dance, just let me hang on to you and…”  
“You wanna grind your cock on my ass, let’s just do that behind closed doors and without clothes, huh?”

He’s got that cocky little smirk on his face, knowing Mickey will do just about anything he asks of him eventually. It never really did take much prodding. He gets to his feet with a sigh, pulling Mandy to hers and admitting, “fuckin’ fine then tough guy, I might be queer enough to be married to a dude but I ain’t queer enough for any of that faggot butt grinding bullshit and…”

“A slow dance then?” smirk becoming a giant cheesy grin.

“No, fuck you, I…” his words are cut off by Ian’s lips meeting his. 

Mandy pats his shoulder on her way by, leaving them alone. Knowing by the time she rejoins the party, by the time she gets herself another drink. By the time she turns around and finds their shadows on the ridge, they’ll be slow dancing in each other’s arms in the moonlit desert night. The sound of their family enjoying the hell out of themselves at the first gay wedding many of them have attended, and the most beautiful start to a marriage most of them will ever witness happening right behind them on that ridge. She won’t point it out to anyone, though she knows by the calm nod she receives from Lou that she’s not the only one noticing; they deserve their peace and quiet happiness. They always have. 

She laughs, thinking to herself that all it took, the first domino, was her false accusation of Ian messing with her. Of course that would end up being the guy her brother marries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate weddings. I've never written one before. I wouldn't even have attended my own if I didn't have to be there to get the marriage out of it. This one was pretty in line with something that would work for them. A little play on Lou's original love speech from Tell Me About Mexico - this one done with tears of joy. 
> 
> No wedding night is complete without at least one slow dance for the couple - but I wanted them to have their dance in peace, alone under the glow of the desert moon.


	58. Damn Right You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fuck you lookin' at?

Damn Right You Are

 

“Did you ever think, back in the day, this is where we’d be?” Mickey grins, tilting his head to look at Ian in the most intoxicatingly beautiful way he has ever imagined.

“Slow dancing under the glow of a desert moon with two crows cawing at us while our family celebrates our wedding by getting shit-faced?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Nah,” he smiles, “can’t say I would have predicted that. But this,” squeezing him tighter until there’s no space between their pelvises, “is exactly where I knew I’d always end up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” taking a moment to adore the way the moon lights his eerily gorgeous face, twinkling across the sea of his blue irises, “fuck, you’re beautiful.”

“Shut the fuck up,” but he’s grinning and his hand is sliding across Ian’s jaw, guiding his face to his level. Lips landing perfectly and tenderly against Ian’s. Rising immediate sparks and swirling flames of passion in his body. But it doesn’t have to be done in desperation anymore. They don’t have to kiss like it’s the last chance they’ll ever get, like someone will walk in any moment and shoot or pistol whip Mickey. Ian doesn’t have to pry his way into Mickey’s heart with overeager kisses and a tire iron. He lives there now.   
Pressing his hand into the small of Mickey’s back, holding him close. As close as possible as their lips part, their tongues meet and the kiss becomes desperate anyway. Or course it does. Some passions cannot be stifled. Some passions should never be stifled. They never should have been. 

His hands have begun working at Mickey’s dress shirt, untucking it quickly and yanking the buttons open.

“Slow down tough guy,” whispered and breathy against his lips while his hands work over Ian’s belt buckle.

“You slow down,” as he starts stepping into him to back him up. He’s not going inside, that’s too far away, that would involve walking through the crowd. Although the crowd is drunk, he’s got no desire to walk through it sporting a full wood. He’s just going to steer him down into the dip of the desert floor, lay his shirt out on the ground and kiss every single part of his bare flesh in the warm spotlight of the moon. He’s going to take his time and look at every single line, scar, freckle, and dimple in his flesh. He’s going to taste every single inch of his salty skin. He’s going to watch him. He’s going to watch his perfect face when they become one being. For those moments when nothing else exists on this planet, there is only the two of them and they are simply one thing. Two flesh and blood and bone things that have been bonded together by trials that broke them, ripped them apart, kept them apart; and then finally shoved them back together only to become stronger. Only to find a way to seep into each other’s bodies and minds, to allow their souls to finally bond together the way they’ve always desired. From that very first fuck, from that very first kiss, from that very first lingering moment of eye contact. Fuck, how impossible it was to look for long at Mickey back then, like he was something that Ian was convinced he was imagining and if he looked too long he’d disappear into thin air. Or punch him. Whichever came first. 

But now, now he is looking directly at him and in the reflection of the moon in the night’s sky, he’s seeing the same things he’s always seen in Mickey’s eyes. His life. Their life. Together. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” 

Grinning ear to ear as he slides his thumb over his bottom lip, “my husband Mick. I’m looking at my husband.”

“Damn right you are firecrotch,” tapping his cheek with his Mickey love-taps, “damn right you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband, damn it.
> 
> I had this terrible, terrible, mean urge to skip back to when Ian was laying under the railroad bridge now. And make this all a delusion. But I fought it. Fought it really hard. And here's the best chapter...


	59. I'm 'Onna Fuck You Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drum roll please...

I’m ‘Onna Fuck You Up

 

Yosyf (Joey) Milkovich runs the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of his shiv. Slipping it behind the band of his prison issued underwear. He only has one chance to get this right. There will be about a two minute window once he gets to the yard, before Terry is brought back inside. About a thirty second window when Guard O’Neill will be busy exchanging shift change information with Guard Price. That gives him two and half minutes to cross the yard and get this done. 

He pulls his jumpsuit on. Standing at the door to his cell with his hands out, as directed, while O’Neill opens the bars with a once-over.   
His body is calm. His mind is blank. This is something that should have been done years ago. And Joey should have been the one to do it. Way back then, long before he had a chance to smash Mom’s skull. Long before he had the chance to shatter Colin’s jaw. Crack three of Iggy’s ribs. Put that cigarette out on the knob of Mickey’s spine. And Mandy. Fuck. 

He remembers the way it felt the first time. The very first time Dad hit him. It happened so fast. All he had done was spill a bowl of mostly empty cereal. Dad had been passed out sitting straight up at the kitchen table, but his had darted out so quickly as soon as the bowl hit the linoleum. Connecting hard enough that Joey’s head bounced off the table and his ears were ringing for days. Nadiya had then threatened Terry with a cast iron frying pan. Telling him if he wanted someone to hit, he could go hire himself a whore. 

But that didn’t stop him the next time. And the next time. And the next time. 

He swallows the rage that has balled up in the back of his throat, clawing up his spine. Now is not the time for anger. Now is the time for retribution. 

The sun is hot on the back of his neck as he peels down the top of his jumpsuit. Just like half the other prisoners out here. He’s spotted Terry already. Knowing exactly where he’d be, knowing exactly who would be around him.

He takes a deep breath. And walks. One foot in front of the other. It’s so easy. It’s too easy. He’s standing in front of him. And his eyes are rising. And he’s opening his mouth to say something. But the blade stabbing into his midsection stops the words from parting his lips. Joey’s left hand is squarely on Terry’s shoulder and his right hand just keeps stabbing. One for each of his siblings, one for his mother. Two for each of his siblings, two for his mother. Three for each of his siblings, three for his mother. 

This is so easy. It’s too easy. He can hear the old man’s breath caught in his throat. He can hear the blade, the sickeningly beautiful sound as it tears through layers of flesh, into organs. And back out. Stabbing again.

Four for each sibling. Four for his mother. His face is growing pale, his hands have come out to take hold of Joey’s wrists but it’s not even slowing him. 

Five for each sibling. Five for his mother. His eyes are getting heavy, the shock that was initially there has worn off. Resignation setting in. Knowing someday, someway this would happen. Knowing he would die at the hands of his offspring. Die slow, bleed out there in the prison yard. Gasping for air as pain rips through every single layer of his being. His hands have started to grasp, starting to pull, trying to steer the blade deeper, trying to stab it deeper to end the pain faster. But Joey is strong. And he’s not going to let up.

Six for each sibling. The man is a pin cushion. And the guards have caught wind of this. And the mood in the prison yard is shifting.   
And so is the blade. Joey knew this would take every single ounce of energy in his body. At lights out every night he’s been practicing. Stabbing motions into his pillow at night, into his mattress. Over and over. Over until the motion is so engrained in his right hand, wrist, arm, shoulder that it would become nothing more than breathing. 

Six for his mother.

Joey feels himself smile. Looking down at the pain his old man’s eyes, his left hand slides back to the back of his head, tugging his hair and leaning in close to his face to promise, “I’m ‘onna fuck you up Dad,” as he stabs the shiv into his groin hard and fast, “that one’s for Mandy.”

Holding his head in his hand as he watches the last bit of color drain from his cheeks. The last desperate moment of life glisten across the surface of his eyes. As he listens to his last haggard breath part his lips. 

As he releases his grip. He watches the old man crumble to the ground. Blood pouring forth in a puddle of crimson, spreading to where Joey is standing with a smile on his face and a calm, easy twinkle in his eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome. I couldn't sacrifice my king or queen, but a little Milkovich pawn? Sure, why the fuck not?
> 
> Snip, snap, snout, this tale's told out.
> 
> As always, if you're here, thank you for making it this far. And as always, the next chapter is not a chapter but some further notes for those of you that care to hear anymore of my long-windedness. If you don't care to hear my ramblings, I'm so glad you came along on this journey. Thank you for spending your time with me!


	60. I Need A Fucking Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes and ramblings.

I feel like I deserve a damn drink after that one. Or maybe two. Two for joy. And maybe you do too for making it through this - thanks again, and cheers! 

I would love for that to be my last fic for them that includes anything from post season five, but now that I've heard Cameron is returning for season ten, I'm already preparing for the worst since the writers seem hell-bent on making the worst of that relationship. Keeping my fingers crossed, but half preparing to write something that is Mickey moving the fuck on as soon as they have Ian start up with someone else on the show. 

I swung kind of fast, hard, and high at those last chapters. So if you want anything further explored - if I touched the surface of something you wanted to see more of, if I left anything just too damn open-ended - let me know. I'm willing to dust. With the reminder of course that gaps in fiction are most times left there for the reader/watcher to fill in on their own. Want a flash-forward? I'm willing. 

Part of me wanted to wrap things up for Lou, but I feel pretty good about her right now. She's probably not sober, but she's trying. She's probably not killing anyone anymore, so that's a plus. We left her headed off to nowhere with nothing but a pene eating pit-bull and a tan sweater last time, so standing in the dirt yard of the place she calls home with the only family she knows, seems about as fairy tale as she'll ever get. 

This isn't the end for them. It never will be. I feel like I could personally write them until the cows come home - whenever the fuck that is. 

MaryEllen590 - I am planning on doing the Svetlana piece, I just have to get myself to dedicate some time to her speech patterns before I can really jump. But I've got somewhat of a plan. Probably just a one-shot. But a satisfying one.

I'll throw some work into My Star. And I might even have something I can work the stained glass one into. If anyone has any suggestions they want me to try - feel free to shout 'em out. Did I miss any canon fill-ins that anyone wanted to see? 

I'm leaving this work-in-progress for a bit, so if you want any fillers tell me. Even if you read this after I've officially ended it, I'd be willing to have a relook. 

If you hated it, print off the page you hated the most and wipe your ass with it.

If you loved it, bathe me in your glorious compliments - just kidding, but seriously. I'll pat my own back if necessary. So much canon bullshit I felt like my shovel wasn't big enough for the most part, but I'm at least satisfied with this and think they're both in a healthy individual place that they can carry on with something strong/passionate/loving/open/supportive now. Doesn't mean they don't still have a long row to hoe, everyone does, but that's life. They'll do it together now without destroying themselves. 

As always - I hope I have treated the heavy topics with the respect they deserve. I hope my portrayals are believable and painful and lovable and somehow still overall enjoyable as fuck. As long as I have a single reader, I won't be done, so keep hollering at me if you want me around. And thanks again, so much, so so much for taking your time to travel through this with me and our fictional friends!

You won't find me on social media. If you deem this work or any of mine worthy of sharing - have a ball. Have two balls, make it a set. I'm getting a shit-ton more comfortable leaving pieces of my soul behind for you all to read in these works, I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them!


	61. Flash Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Shameless_BlueEyes as requested.
> 
> 25 years later...

25 years later

 

The sound of waves crashing the shore filtering into his head. The feel of Ian at his back seeping into his pores. Listening to him breathe, feeling it moving gently across his neck, combing though his hair. 

His body starting to come back to life with all the aches and pains present from the years of beating other people to a bloody pulp, and in the process tearing his own body apart. Curse that fucking woman with her shotgun and cocky smirk for getting him into this life.   
His fingers instinctively grasp tighter at the ones entwined there. Feeling the metal of their worn out wedding bands clinking together. The movement stirring Ian just enough to burrow his face closer to Mickey’s neck. As if he could get any closer. Feeling a smile spreading on his lips. Fuck, he loves this. 

Taking the moment to appreciate this. The ocean breeze tumbling through the open windows. The soft feel of Ian against him, around him. The sound of laughter floating around outside with the salt and lingering dampness. 

He loves that fuckin’ laughter. It draws him out of bed, out of the warmth and comfort of home. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, reaching a hand out to rest on his temple. Watching his eyes move beneath the lids. Stroking through his hair, where once there was fire only ash remains. When did that happen? When did the fire go out? Was it gradual, one flame at a time? 

Fuck, it must have been. 

The fire in his hair might be out, but the fire in his eyes will never extinguish, even as the words are muttered and the eyes close again, “ten more minutes,” and his hand falls into Mickey’s lap with a lazy thump. 

“Okay grey-bush,” leaning quickly to press lips against his temple, right beside the crow’s feet that have etched their age into his skin.

————

Cup of coffee in his hand he leans against the open door. One step and he’ll be bare foot in the beach sand. His eyes scan the sandy yard. Hearing the laughter of his grandchildren most likely on the point. 

Lou’s green bivy tent set up under the palm brush. She’s here for the off-season with them. She’ll come and go. Stay as long as she wishes and then float off on the strongest waft of ocean wind to wherever her heart desires. But it’s her laugh that he recognizes along with his grandchildren. 

They’ll spend the fight season on the complex. Training now, handling fighters. Ian is still working in the clinic, since Doc passed a few years back he’s been the village medicine man. A handful of staff perfectly capable of treating patients when he’s on vacation. He loves the job and he’ll die before he’ll give it up. 

His eyes drag over to the guest house where Yev and his wife are spending the week-long furlough. Their three children learning how to swim with Rosa’s two. 

He is certain by the wild laughter and childish screams for joy that Lou just caught a puffer fish. She’ll throw it back, after of course, they each have a good look at it. She rarely keeps puffers. She says it’s just not enough meat to kill for. That’s what she says, but Mickey is fairly certain she’s just lost her killer edge in her old age. Though he’d never tell her that. 

“Buenos dias papa,” her presence against his side, sneaking her way under his arm. He turns to kiss the top of her head.

“Buenos dias novio,” squeezing her tight to him. She studied under her papa Ian as a nurse. Now she’s an RN with some fancy job, head nurse, at a hospital in Texas. Mickey couldn’t be more proud of her. The broken blue-eyed crow that landed in their lives when she needed them the most. And maybe when he needed her the most. 

“What?” she wonders with an air of annoyance, feeling his eyes lingering on her for entirely too long as far as she’s concerned.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, leaving another kiss on her head before she can squirm away.

“Twenty minutes until breakfast is ready,” she calls over her shoulder, her feet tossing sand behind them on her path to a morning swim.

————

As soon as he sits on the edge of the bed and his hand lands on Ian’s face, his eyes open like a window blind that’s been pulled hard and released quickly. The same damn dopey smile he’s always worn as Mickey whispers, “mornin’ sleepy face,” to that spinning galaxy of green meeting his and lingering.

“Mornin’ ocean eyes,” with that stupid fuckin’ dopey ass smile getting more stupid and impossibly more dopey, “been ten minutes already?”

“Yeah. We’ve got ten more ’til breakfast is ready.”

“And everyone else is outside?”

“Yah,” feeling his eyebrows dart up, “‘less you need more time…”

The answer coming in the form of his arms appearing from under the sheets, hands grabbing quickly and eagerly for Mickey’s hips. Tugging against not-much-resistance to pull him back into bed. 

————

The chit-chat at the breakfast table on the back patio becomes nothing more than the music that guides the smiles that break the laughter that blanket the entire circle of their family in a type of warmth and comfort that Mickey has never felt elsewhere. Taking his time to watch every single face, every single smile. Taking the time to imprint every single image in his mind. 

Fucked for life? Nah. Feeling a smile rising on his lips and feeling Ian’s eyes lingering on him from beside him, “the fuck you lookin’ at?” growling half-heartedly in his general direction as his hand clamps down on Mickey’s thigh under the table.

“Just counting all your grey hairs,” with another squeeze as he loads a forkful of food into his mouth with a shrug.

“You’re one to talk tough guy,” his eyebrows rising as Ian’s smile rises. Fuck him, “c’mere,” half-nodding his okay to kiss him. It’s quick and it’s nothing but lips, but it’s enough. Hell, it’s more than enough. It always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, that feels like a little more closure. Thanks for the request!


	62. Fill-in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I almost posted this as a separate work because it won't be up everyone's alley. Feel free to skip it. This is a little bit more into the Mickey and Deran relationship because as I thought about the two of them, I thought this was a time for Mickey that a sexual relationship had some potential to heal some of the shit I put him through in prison. And for Deran it was a short time after he came out so he'd be getting more comfortable in his sexuality. So for both of them, it could have been a meaningful place in their lives to have a no-strings-attached sexual relationship. And they've both experienced similar enough things that they'd be in a room where there was no judgment and a certain level of understanding each other's childhood and ways of life.  
> If you don't watch Animal Kingdom (what the hell are you waiting for?) I've included Deran's coming out to his mother from the show so you can get a little taste of them.  
> WARNING: Sexual content between Mickey and a guy that is not Ian. Keep in mind that this was during a time that Mickey was single - Ian would have been being Gay Jesus, chasing after Trevor, and talking to Terry during this time frame so...it's good timing for Mickey to explore!

A little bit for Saighin to hold you over until I can get the gears turning at the right speed to nail down a good plot for AK crossover:

 

Deran coming out to his mother:  
“I’m gay.”  
“Sweetheart. It’s going to be okay baby,” reaching for him as he backs away - clearly distraught.  
“It’s not okay. ‘Cause I can’t fuck you. Isn’t that what you want? To feel like that’s what I want? Guess you’ll have to see if Pope or Craig are gonna do it, ‘cause you know Baz isn’t your real son so that makes it less interesting,” voice shaking, fighting tears and anger and rejection and confusion, “you never loved me. You never loved any of us. It’s all about you. It’s always been about you.”

And here we go...

 

Mickey’s hands fall to the top of Deran’s head, eyes opening to watch him. A sick part of him feels a need to remind himself it’s not Ian’s mouth on his dick. Every single time. Like he needs to fuckin’ watch it to remember. Like the massive amount of fuckin’ hair ain’t enough of a reminder under his fingers. Every time he sucks his dick that goddamn hair is hiding his face, and every time he slides the length of Mickey’s cock, that goddamn hair is tickling his stomach. Not that Mickey would ever admit to any part of him being ticklish. But that fuckin’ hair. Fuck.

He slides his fingers through it, gripping it not to pull or guide his rhythm or anything. Fuckin’ holding it back. He’s fucking holding his hair back. So he can see his face. 

Those fuckin’ eyes. They’re so much like his sister’s. Lacking the raw pain that glazes over hers every now and again, when she thinks no one’s watching. Guy’s got his share of secrets though. Mickey can see that. After a few weekends now of hooking up. It’s gotten really fuckin’ easy to fuck this guy. He doesn’t try to make it mean a damn thing, but he’s eager enough that Mickey’s certain he’s turned the fuck on by him without having to vocalize shit about it. He’s aggressive but respectful about it, there’s no forcing of a damn thing, but he’s not afraid to wrestle a little. There’s no fighting for control. No chasing release. It’s just fucking. And he’s fuckin’ good at it. 

His mouth releases Mickey’s dick as his fingers slide out, reaching for a condom. He’s got a good dick too, guy’s scorin’ pretty high on all measurements of what makes a good fuck buddy. 

Only thing Mickey can’t quite get over is the damn kissing. Deran ain’t all over it, like all needy and shit. But he still wants to kiss, and that fuckin’ beard and all the fuckin’ hair. Just gettin’ in the fuckin’ way. 

Kneeling between Mick’s thighs with the raised brows, waiting for the nod. He gives it, and he gets that dick. Deran’s hands slide up his sides, finding a comfortable spot under his shoulder-blades as he leans over him. His lips meet his collarbone, damn beard. Fuck.

And his fuckin’ hair. Mickey finds his hand sliding through it again. Holding it back. Again. Fuck. He wants to take a knife to that hair. Bet Lou’s got one that’ll do the trick, make quick work. Wait ’til he’s got it banded back and just slice right through it. 

————

Sprawled out with the ceiling fan spinning on high, hoping to soak up some sweat. It ain’t workin’. ‘Course Deran’s head resting on his chest and his fuckin’ hair, “fuck,” his fingers grip into it again. Wrapping it tight, fuckin’ Californians. He half tucks it up against his shoulder. The only part of him touching Mick is his head. His head full of fuckin’ hair. He’s on his back, smoking a cigarette. 

One more thing he’s got going for him, he’s not much for post-sex chatting or fuckever. 

His hair unravels when he turns his head, offering the smoke to Mickey. Fuck, he wants it. But, “nah man,” this time he twists the handful of hair before he tucks it under his shoulder. And as soon as he turns his head to exhale the nicotine filled cloud towards the spinning ceiling fan, the fucking hair unravels again, “fuck this hair.”

Makes him laugh a breathy chuckle, “hate it that much?”

“Yes I fucking hate it. It’s like wearing a fuckin’ fur coat in the middle of the fuckin’ summer. What the fuck is it with you So Cal fucks and all your fuckin’ hair? Don’t it get in the way?”

He shrugs. His smile is nice, it’s fairly unstrained, “only when I’m sucking dick.”

“That’s often enough.”

He falls silent for a long moment, staring at the ceiling while Mickey stares at the wisp of smoke rising and twirling through the air before he brings it almost to his lips, pausing to tell him, “it is pretty annoying.”

“Why the fuck you keep it then?”

He takes a long drag, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Away from Mickey this time, admitting quietly and almost sheepishly a one word answer that makes all the fuckin’ sense in the world to Mickey, “Smurf.”

Smurf’s his fuckin’ Mom. Why the fuck none of ‘em call her Mom is beyond Mickey. Fuckever, “your mom?”

“Yeah,” and it sounds all fuckin’ weird and like he hates himself for caring what she thinks, but he needs her approval and there ain’t a damn thing he can do to convince himself otherwise.

“Gimme that,” grabbing for the smoke from his fingers, “fuck,” one drag. That’s all. One won’t hurt a damn thing. Handing it back over as he blows the smoke out with a heavy sigh, “fuck. I used to think I could make my dad love me. Like if I played his game, and played by his rules. I could make him love me more than he loved hating me,” his fingers are rising to grind into his eyes as he feels Deran’s gaze on him. Fuck him for having the same fuckin’ eyes as his sister, all understanding and shit, “can’t do it,” now his hands are dropping, finding his fuckin’ hair and sliding it through his fingers. Like Mickey can convince his mind of anything, but he can’t ever convince his hands to stop looking for that one thing. That one thing that he can grip that won’t leave him, “you can’t make her love you more than she loves her game, or her booze. She can’t love herself then there ain’t a way in hell she can love you.”

He has no idea why he just said any of that shit. Deran’s looking at him without a single expression readable on his face, but his eyes are saying, ‘I know,' and his hand is rising with the cigarette to his lips. His ear is against the beating of Mickey’s heart and he’s certain he’s listening to it as he takes a slow drag, finally wondering as the smoke rolls out of his mouth, “what was your dad’s game?”

“Had us runnin’ drugs and guns for him by the time we were in middle school. But we were no more than stray dogs to him. A roof over our heads and the occasional table scrap.”

Mickey watches his abs when he sits up to stub the smoke out in the ashtray. This time when he lays down again it’s parallel to Mickey, on his belly. His hand reaching for Mickey’s leg and he’s wondering if this is going to be round two. He’s not quite ready, but he can be real fuckin’ quick. Instead his fingers slip underneath, finding that tender crevice of skin behind his knee cap. That cluster of round burn scars, “that him?” he wonders as his fingers trace blindly each of the five on that leg. Like he memorized exactly where they were and he wanted to ask about them weeks ago but never did. He didn’t seem to have a problem askin’ about the pellet scars, apparently burns are different. 

He feels himself nod and watches Deran move towards him. Lean over him, feeling his lips against his and this time it’s not the fuckin’ beard he feels. It’s the comfort of lips on lips. Lips that understand without having to say a damn word about it.

————

Mickey sits down heavily in the chair on the patio. The sun is starting to tickle the horizon with shades of morning. Watching his fingers reaching out for the bottle cap on the table. Setting it on his knuckle, watching his hand as he flips it from one finger to the next. 

“You ever regret it?” Deran wonders from where he’s half-seated on the rail, back turned toward Mickey.

“What?”

“Leaving it all behind?”

“Nah,” watching the bottle bap, F to U to C to K. And back. His breath catches in his throat as his fingers remember the feel of Ian’s body beneath them, “a little.”

“What’d you leave?”

“Nothin’ worth keepin’,” he lies. He didn’t exactly leave Ian. Ian left him. Ian left him. And one day he’ll be able to convince his fingers to forget him. But when he feels Deran’s blue eyes on him, with the sun starting to glint off the surface of his irises, he admits, “a kid with my eyes.”

“You have a kid?”

“Yeah, " sighing, "no,” shit. He’s never admitted that to a soul, “not biologically I s’pose. But he’s mine.”

That’s never gone past him and Svetlana. And it never will. That dumb bitch was already pregnant when Terry called for her that very first time. She knew it was Terry’s ‘cause apparently he’s the only client she couldn’t get to wear a rubber. Mickey ain’t surprised, he knows well how Terry’s fists feel when they connect to a kidney. If he hit her, she’d have caved on the rubber. If he choked her, wouldn’t surprise Mickey either. It ain’t like Sasha was sendin’ a muscle over with her to keep the clients under control. So the dumb bitch gets knocked up by a piece of shit, knows it’s the piece of shit’s kid, gets called over to fuck his queer son straight and sees her opportunity to raise the kid with someone who will resemble the kid enough not to question it. Only thing is, she figured on Mickey being a fuckin’ idiot like the rest of his family. She figured he was dumb, but not evil like Terry. She figured he’d never do the math, he’d never figure out the human gestation period. She saw her opportunity and she took it. For that, he can’t really blame her. Stupid whore couldn’t afford an abortion, or maybe she’s enough into religion to believe they’re wrong or some shit. 

And fuck all if Mickey didn’t put it all together anyway. ‘Course she didn’t want to raise the kid with Terry after she witnessed the true hatred in the depths of that man’s soul when he called her over to fuck his bloody, beaten, faggot son straight one day. And then the next day. And how many fuckin’ days? Sure, make it fuckin’ believable that they’d be together enough times there was no doubt he was straight and it was his sperm. Fuckin’ kid’s got Mickey’s eye color alright, but he ain’t gonna be subjected to growing up with that piece of shit as a father. Fuck, Mickey’s a shit for leaving him, yeah he is. He won’t deny that. But that little shit has a mom who’ll take care of him. And he can spend the rest of his life believing his dad was a piece of shit ex-con who ran off on him before he was old enough to even remember his face, but at least it’s better than getting the beat-downs and the cigarette burns, and the beltings from his real father. 

And fuck it if he’s not doing the right thing. If he’s not doing the right thing by bringing that secret to the grave with him. No one else on the face of this earth needs to know, even the few people Mickey trusts, they don’t need to fuckin’ know. 

He just let it slip to Deran, who’s probably just thinking it’s some adopted kid, like maybe Mickey’s bi and was with a woman for long enough to adopt her kid or some shit. He ain’t gonna get into it. That was more than enough of a slip. And it’ll never fuckin’ happen again. 

His eyes rise to meet Deran’s and he’s got that look again, that blank expression but the words are practically written in his eyes, ‘I know’. 

————

“Sometimes wonder if I could do it,” he takes a long toke, arms wrapped loosely around his knees that are drawn towards his chest in the sand, looking at that hazy place where the sky becomes ocean and the ocean becomes sky, “leave it all behind.”

Accepting the joint when it’s handed over, watching the sun reflected in his eyes when his head turns to scan Mickey over. 

“I want to.”

“Leave?”

“Yeah.”

Silent while he watches Mickey take a hit. Holding it for a long time to let his head clear, holding it until his lungs burn, then letting it out slowly towards the ocean in Deran’s eyes, “it’s different when you can’t go back.”

“You ever want to go back?”

“Yeah,” admitting finally for the first time. To someone else. And to himself, “I don’t know. Fuck Chicago. But fuck, sometimes I miss it. The language, the burgers, the noise, the pace of the city. My son. My sister,” my Ian, “but it ain’t like I had those things behind bars anyway.”

“What’d you do time for?”

“Which time?” he half-smirks.

He doesn’t scoff at it, doesn’t seem surprised or seem like he wants to get up and put as much distance between him and Mickey as he possibly can, “how many times?”

“Twice in juvie. Once in big boy prison.”

“I spent some time in juvie for lifting a car.”

“Possession the first time. Stealin’ the second.”

“And prison?”

“Fuck,” handing the joint back over after a second hit. His fingers meet his eyes, “I don’t even fuckin’ know. Attempted murder but, man,” what the fuck’s he going to say? Took the fall for some dumb shit little sister of some dumb shit guy he loved who was fuckin’ batshit and his not-even-half-sister got him sent to Army jail or whatever the fuck so they hatched a revenge plan that worked too well until it didn’t work at all. Then the bitch came back shooting at him right after his batshit lover broke up with him and he couldn’t even tell Ian how he fuckin’ felt because of her and her stupid pistol and it’s not like he was going to just run. It’s not like he was going to just lead her down the alleys in some shitty chase scene. It’s not like he wasn’t armed, but if that dumb bitch actually did hit him with a bullet that’d be three fuckin’ times he got shot because of Ian and in front of Ian. And if that dumb bitch came after them for their revenge plot and he actually told the truth or Debbie actually told the truth then she’d end up in juvie. And that innocent faced little red riding hood wouldn’t last a day in juvie with her anxiety attacks and shit. So yeah, he’d lead her down an alley and he’d shoot her right in the fuckin’ heart and be done with it. Dump her body in a dumpster where it belonged and go back to tell Ian that yes, he was going to marry him. That stupid fucker, and no he didn’t want to fix him, he just wanted to be with him. Even when he wasn’t getting out of bed and he wasn’t only stripping at the club, it didn’t fucking matter. Because of all the things Mickey had ever grasped that he didn’t want to leave, it was Ian that mattered the most. 

“Shot a bitch who was shootin’ at me. Dumb skank is like un-killable or somethin’ though. Cops didn’t give two shits about who shot first. I had a record she didn’t. Ain’t like the system’s loaded with the cash to get every piece of shit in the Southside a decent lawyer. Ain’t like the public servants actually give two shits about the people they serve. So fuckever. Juvie wasn’t bad, easier than livin’ in the streets or under my dad’s roof so I figured prison couldn’t be that bad either,” he shrugs but an image is rising hard and quick. It makes his stomach knot and his head spin and his hand is shaking when he reaches for the joint.

And Deran’s still not shocked or awed or surprised in the least fuckin’ bit. This guy ever get rattled?

“Was it?”

“Bad? Yeah.”

His eye contact breaks momentarily, wandering as far as his ginger brother for just a brief once-over before landing on Mickey again, “we don’t hurt people. That’s what Smurf is always saying. Get in, do the job, don’t hurt anybody. Usually it works out. I fucked up about a year ago, got a security guard killed,” the joint rises to his lips but he doesn’t inhale just yet. Watching Mickey’s hands when he admits, “sucks.”

So maybe he was wrong on his initial inventory of this guy. Maybe he has seen some shit. He ain’t just some spoiled So Cal kid. His mom sounds like a real piece of work, and yeah, she probably would have kicked them to the curb when they were kids if they refused to do a job. 

“Yeah,” he agrees as he falls back to lie flat on the sand. Watching the lone cloud drifting across an otherwise clear sky.

————

He’s startled awake by a hand shaking his shoulder. Leaping out of bed before his surroundings are in focus or the body the hand belongs to is familiar. His existence is in that space between blood on the tiled floor of a prison bathroom, ringing in his head as a Russian whore’s pussy contacted his dick for the first time, and being crushed to near suffocation by the rolling tidal wave of his lover’s buzzing energy. 

He knows his blinking is frantic and his breath is ragged. He knows the voice that wonders, “you okay?” but he can’t identify it just yet. He knows the sweat that’s pooled in his asscrack is just sweat and not blood, but his mind can’t be convinced of that just yet. He knows his fists are clenched, and his arms are boxing his face in to block Terry’s incoming blows. He knows he’s taking backwards steps across the marbled floor of a fancy resort, not the carpeted floor of his bedroom. He knows the waves that are crashing outside are the forces of the moon and the Pacific ocean, not Ian. And he knows the buzzing in his ears is not the sound of the prison alarm. 

But he can’t convince himself of that just yet. 

He knows the fuzzy human that won’t come into focus has just switched the light on. That fuzzy human seems to know better than to approach a frightened animal. That fuzzy human seems to know that a gentle voice is the best course of action here, and he’s trying but Mickey can’t hear a fucking word.

His blinking is only working enough to recognize a door. A door is an exit. And his body is moving towards it. A door that is not locked. It is not steel bars. 

The wet, cool, Pacific air is on his face and he can barely feel it. But it’s something salty and wet that isn’t sweat or tears. And he’s moving towards it even though he can’t feel it and he’s not telling himself to do it. And his feet are in the water and he can’t feel it but they’re not stopping. 

His existence is fully rooted in that space between the raping and the pounding and the gasping and the bleeding. His existence is fully rooted in the space between the punches and the chokes and the belt. His existence in fully rooted in that space between the shivs and the knives and the guns. His existence is fully rooted in those cigarette burns and the feel of the glass on the floor beneath his cheek. 

Until it isn’t. Until it’s just him and the ocean. And the dark sky with a million stars and a bright moon. And that fuzzy presence beside him. That one that’s becoming more familiar the longer he floats here staring at the sky. That one that’s becoming more earth to ocean and ocean to sky. 

And Mickey takes a deep breath and hears the water slosh around Deran as he lowers himself until fully submerged in the gentle rocking of the waves. And his head turns to see his shadowy figure disappear completely beneath the surface of the glowing moon’s reflection on a transparent mirror. 

When he resurfaces a few moments later he’s holding a fish in his hands. It’s lit up like a firefly, “lanternfish,” announcing as he approaches Mickey and Mickey puts his feet down on the ocean’s bottom. Green lights on it’s head, belly, and tail, “bioluminescence,” the fish is alive but not fighting against Deran’s grip, “they spend the day in the deep and the night feeding on the surface of the ocean.”

Mickey’s never touched a live fish before. Deran’s not handing it over, but he’s holding it there, right there where Mickey can reach it. So he does. His hand isn’t shaking. It’s steady. And the fish’s eyes are big and dark, it’s gills are moving slowly and he runs a finger down it’s spine. He sees a gentle smile on Deran’s face in the moonlight. And fuck, guess this guy isn’t going to ask. He’s not going to press for a reason why. He’s just going to take a midnight swim and catch a fish. 

And that’s just fine. He feels that tightly knotted rope in his chest loosen just a little and he watches Deran’s hands break the surface of the water, he feels the fish under his fingertip as he releases it and it starts swimming. He feels Deran’s hand slide over his back, and pull him closer, he feels his lips land on his forehead and his fingers press into the small of his back to steer him back into shore. 

————

His hair is still wet and his skin is sticky with salt starting to dry, eyes are still a little unfocused but his chest feels loose and his breathing is even as Deran closes the door behind them. This is it. This is the control Lou was talking about. The opportunity to quiet those voices, to blanket those memories, to hide the feel of those hands on his flesh. 

He turns before Deran has the chance to go for a shower, gripping his arms to pull him into his body. Every kiss and every fingertip a forgotten touch, a forgotten unwanted touch. The whore, the convicts. Every single fingerprint they’ve left on his skin, in his head. 

The familiarity of Ian. That’ll never go away. Mickey knows that. Not just in his fingertips and in his mind, but in every single nerve and every single cell of his being. Those places that have only been touched by Ian, those inside places that he ripped apart and Mickey is slowly stitching back together in his absence. 

But this. This right here, Deran’s hands and Deran’s body and Deran’s lips. This can burn off the feel of the nightmares, of the tingling and itching that lingers on his skin long into the day after. This is his choice. The only choice he’s ever made that wasn’t Ian. Or an attempt to forget Ian. Or an attempt to forget he was gay.

This right here. This is a choice to forget Svetlana. And forget prison. To forget the emotional and physical pain. This right here.  
It’s mostly been face to face. That was Mickey’s choice. The very fist time they hooked up, there would be nothing from behind. Nothing that could make him close his eyes and see the bathroom floor tile. Nothing that could make him close his eyes and think it was Ian at the Southshore docks. Nothing that could make him close his eyes and remember the things he’s dying to forget. Forget for two very different reasons. 

He backs Deran into the bathroom. And maybe Deran’s taken aback for a brief moment when he lies face down on the bathroom floor, but he kneels over him immediately when Mickey arches his back, just enough to give the signal, just enough to lift his ass and give the okay. 

And his hands are gentle when they trace over this asscheeks, when they linger over the divots from the pellets. His mouth his warm as it moves down his spine. 

————

The tile is cool on his overheated cheek. Deran’s face is buried between his shoulder blades, his hands have found and grasped Mickey’s as he’s rocked into him for the final time of this round. That knot has loosened and unwound itself in Mickey’s stomach as his eyes open and scan the bathroom. There’s no blood on the tiles. There’s no pounding in his head or bruises forming on his flesh. His mind isn’t slipping away as his breath chokes off and his heart slows. 

There are tiles. There is a toilet. There is a sink. There is a man on his back with his dick still in his ass. There is a release balled up in his abdomen. There is a release rolling down his spine.

Deran’s hands release his, he backs away slowly, gently and his grip is firm on Mickey’s hips, rolling him to his back. Lips on his stomach, one hand grasping his balls, the other slipping down his arm to find his hand once more. His mouth making contact with Mickey’s cock as that release rolls, his hand meets the top of Deran’s head, fingers through his hair. 

The tile is against his back. The ceiling is white. The man is wanted. And this is the control. This is the release. This is the feeling of choice. 

This is familiar but not memorized. This is the act of wanting but not needing. This, this is the part of him that died on the prison bathroom floor, this is the part of him that died on the couch that morning, this is the part of him that was taken. The part that he’ll never get back. But right now, he can control it. He can control the when, the where, the who. He can reach out and grasp it and it won’t leave him, it won’t disappear beneath his fingers. It’s a solid definable quantifiable thing that he is holding onto. 

And fuck it if it doesn’t feel like a solid definable quantifiable thing that’s releasing right down Deran’s throat as a solid definable quantifiable moan exits Mickey’s lips and swirls towards the ceiling just like the smoke that rolled off Deran’s lips earlier. Swirling in the air above his head for just a moment, just one moment as he watches his hand rising off the floor as though it’s reaching for the nothingness of noise. He hears himself laugh and he feels Deran’s lips trailing back up his body, stomach, chest, neck. His hand lands on the side of his face, on his bearded cheek as his lips make contact with Mickey’s and he feels a reciprocated smile against his own.

Fuck fucking on bathroom floors. That shit ain’t ever happening again with the feel of the unforgiving surface against his shoulder-blades, against the back of his head before Deran’s hand slides under it, against his ass bones while Deran’s body weight adjusts over him to slide deeper into a kiss. And fuck his hair as it slips out of Mickey’s grasp and tickles the side of Mickey’s cheek and it’s exactly distracting enough for him to pull out of the kiss and grumble, “fuck your hair.”

And it is exactly enough to make Deran laugh. And it is exactly enough to make Mickey forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Problem with Lou and Deran having the same eyes - Billy's are brown. Bummer for that storyline not adding up.
> 
> The kid in 6x1 had blue eyes (did the baby?). Did Terry? I can't remember. Not that it matters that much, I guess I didn't brush up on the genetics behind eye color but I guess if they're brothers they could have the same eyes even with different moms. If the trait came from Terry's side. No idea. I guess I could stop being lazy and look it up - but I'll leave that to my research monkey friend :)
> 
> I never could figure out why Mickey was doing ten years for attempted murder if it was just for the revenge plot that Debbie was the one who mostly carried out. So I embellished it. And honestly, would Mickey really run like some bitch from some bitch with a pistol? Yeah right - and while Ian just sat there not even flinching. 
> 
> Threw this together this afternoon when it hijacked my brain - not heavily edited or fact checked or whatever - so sorry if there are holes or half-assed plot lines that don't make full sense. The page breaks aren't definable amounts of time, maybe minutes or hours or days. 
> 
> That felt strangely good. Hopefully if you read it you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


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